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

It was remarkable to Roan that when he’d first seen Prudence in Ashton Down, he’d thought her beautiful in that way men have of thinking every female is beautiful. It was nothing more than an appreciation of curves and lips and remarkable eyes. When he’d realized that she’d not intended to come on the stagecoach before he’d arrived, he’d thought her amusingly and ironically imprudent. His opinion of her had been much like his opinion of Aurora—charming and foolish. And he’d believed he was indulging Prudence’s desire for an adventure, much like he would indulge his sister when he was not so very cross with her.

Now he wasn’t certain of anything, not one damn thing. He knew only that somehow, Prudence’s adventure had become his adventure. His! A man who had spent his childhood in the wilds of New York, who traveled alone to the Canadian border, across vast wilderness to look after their business. To think that he would find such adventure in sedate, pastoral England was absurd, but he had. In fact, it had been one of the biggest, most stunning adventures of his life. And he was a changed man for it.

He feared he would be a wounded man for it when it was all said and done. Oh, but Roan had meant what he’d said to her tonight—come to America, be his wife. The thought had gurgled up, bursting through the surface of his thoughts so clearly and precisely that he’d known without a doubt it had come directly from his heart.

There was, obviously, the glaring problem of Susannah Pratt. That would be an unpleasant task, and one certain to ruffle feathers. But Roan didn’t feel responsibility for Susannah. He didn’t really know Susannah. Theirs was no love match—it was hardly even a civil match at this point. One day, she might even thank him. And if not, Roan didn’t care. He was willing to risk her disdain, his father’s displeasure, Mr. Pratt’s anger, for love.

He, Roan Matheson, would risk all for love. The world had flipped on its head and turned everything upside down.

And yet, the euphoria of his feelings was tampered by the pressing worry of Aurora. Roan had expected to find her here, or, at the very least, be told she’d just left. Gone a fortnight? Was Aurora ruined? Had she done something as spectacularly foolhardy as Prudence?

At dawn, he dressed and closed up his trunk, then roused Prudence with a kiss. He went downstairs and sent a girl up to help her dress and asked for a carriage to be brought round to take them into the village. “What time is the coach to London?” he asked the butler, Cyril, who was looking a bit bleary-eyed that morning.

“Ten o’clock, sir. It will take you as far as Manchester. It’s two full days’ journey to Londontown.”

Roan nodded and glanced at a mantel clock. Two days in a crowded stagecoach, two days of wanting her, two days of hoping she would agree to marry him. Roan was not very practiced with the true affairs of the heart, obviously, but he knew that Prudence had to come to her answer on her own. She was right—he was asking a lot of her.

The desire had to be hers as much as it was his. They had to share the determination to overcome the ocean between them or it would never work—not here, not there. Perhaps, Roan mused, he was asking a lot of himself, too. Prudence might be right.

He sighed and pushed the thought away. He didn’t want to think about that now. He couldn’t think about it now, not with his sister weighing so heavily on his mind.

The carriage was brought round and their trunks loaded. No one was on hand to see them off—at Roan’s inquiry, Cyril said, “His lordship and his guests retired to their beds just before dawn. They have not roused themselves.”

Roan suspected they wouldn’t rouse themselves for several hours. What a lot they were, here at Howston Hall. It was almost like stepping into a strange dream. Roan didn’t understand how men lived without purpose or occupation—he was as eager as Prudence to be gone from here.

Their trunks were brought out, Prudence trailing behind, looking a bit pale, Roan thought. She was wearing a pretty yellow traveling gown, and as he helped her into the interior of the carriage, he happened to catch sight of Stanhope. That man sauntered out onto the drive. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Matheson?” he asked pleasantly.

Roan closed the door of the carriage and stalked to where Stanhope waited. They stood eye to eye. “What in hell do you want?” he demanded softly.

Stanhope arched a brow as if Roan amused him, then looked past him, to the carriage. “Only to wish you Godspeed, sir. Perhaps I’ll see you again in London.”

Roan said nothing, but turned on his heel and strode back to the carriage.

Prudence had very little to say on the drive into the village. From there, the coach to Manchester was crowded, much more than any of the coaches they’d yet been on, and Roan had to ride up top while Prudence rode in the carriage crowded between the coach wall and a woman who carried a cat in a cage on her lap.

The weather turned quite warm and uncomfortably moist. It felt to Roan like his despair and worry were pressing down on him, embedding in his skin.