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

“So am I,” she said.

They stood gazing at each other. It was madness. What was left to be said? He couldn’t bear standing about, hoping by some miracle that things would change. He walked on and prayed that he would not be haunted by the vision of her standing in that door, or worse, of Stanhope and Prudence in a marital bed, that man’s mouth on her breast, his cock inside of her.

He spent the morning and early afternoon arranging for a suite at a nearby hotel and passage to Liverpool the next morning. He sent a messenger to Liverpool to book passage to America. He occupied himself in every way he could until there was nothing left to be done but leave.

He returned to Audley Street in a hackney and had it packed with their things. He was as ready as he could possibly make himself to leave Prudence, and announced their departure.

Mr. and Mrs. Easton, their children, and Mercy all came to see them off. So did Prudence, of course, standing off to one side. Roan could hardly look at her—it was as if she were on a funeral march.

Easton jovially clapped his shoulder. He’d done a complete turnabout with Roan since his arrival. Apparently, he’d seen something in Roan that he liked. “I hope you’ll at least think about what I’ve suggested,” he said, referring to the cotton trade. “I could have my agent draw up some figures and send them over if you like.” He extended his hand for Roan to shake.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Roan said, shaking his hand. He said nothing about the trade. He couldn’t care less about the trade.

Mrs. Easton, holding her youngest son, smiled sympathetically. She put her hand on his arm and said, “I wish you Godspeed, Mr. Matheson. Bon voyage, Miss Matheson.”

“I do hope the weather is good,” Aurora said lightly. “It’s such a long voyage.”

“Forty days if we’re lucky,” Roan remarked absently.

As Finnegan helped Aurora into the hackney, Roan turned to Prudence. The others moved on to the coach to give them a bit of privacy, and peered inside, listening to Mercy and Aurora promise to write each other.

Prudence gamely tried to smile.

“Pru,” he sighed. “Words fail me.”

Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble and she bit down on it. “I beg your forgiveness,” she said in a rush. “You have shown me the best days of my life and I will always be grateful. Always.”

“Ah, Pru,” he said sadly. “I don’t want your bloody gratitude.” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a folded piece of vellum. It contained more words, words he had labored over until the sun had come up and, still, they were woefully inadequate. But these bungled words were the only thing he had to give her. He lifted Prudence’s hand, put the letter in it and closed her fingers around it. “I love you. I will always love you. Remember that.”

Roan was aware of the Eastons, and of Aurora, who was now hanging out the window. Of Finngean and the coachman and people walking on the street. “Goodbye.” He didn’t care that everyone was watching. He suddenly grabbed Prudence up. He kissed her fully and without regard for anything but her, kissed her cheek, her neck, and then forced himself to let go. He turned away from her, put his back to her for fear he would do it again, and put himself in that coach, then pounded on the ceiling to signal he was ready.

The coach rolled away from the curb.

“Are you all right?” Aurora asked, staring at him in wonder.

He wasn’t the least bit all right. His breath was constricted, his heart pounding. Roan ignored his sister. The coach turned the corner, and Roan glanced out the window.

Prudence hadn’t moved at all. She was still standing there, clutching his letter.

Aurora saw her, too. “Don’t be sad, Roan,” she said, and put her hand on his knee. “There are many gentlemen in London. With her fine looks and gentle disposition, they’ll be queuing at her door, won’t they? And you! You’ll be married to Susannah Pratt, just as you planned.”

Roan turned his head and looked out the other window, clenching his jaw to keep from bellowing in pain.





CHAPTER NINETEEN

PRUDENCE WATCHED ROAN’S coach until she could no longer see it. She might have stood all day had Honor not come out and put her arm around her shoulder, forcing her inside. “Come have some tea,” Honor suggested.

“No, thank you. I want to rest now. I slept so poorly last night.” Prudence went up to her room where her grief turned poisonous. She vomited into the chamber pot.

Then she wept.

Much later, Honor tried to soothe her, but Prudence curled into a ball on her bed and insisted she keep the door shut and the drapes drawn. “For God’s sake, Honor, let me be,” Prudence begged her.