The Scoundrel and the Debutante

by Julia London

  Miss Cabot apparently thought the better of running and engaging him in a true footrace, but she took a tentative step back.

  Roan stopped himself from grabbing her by the arms and giving her a good shake. He put his hands on his waist and stared at her. “All right, then, the sisters have gone. You may safely confess what you’ve done.”

  “Whatever do you mean? I’ve done nothing,” she insisted unconvincingly.

  “Thievery?” he asked flatly.

  She gasped.

  “Murder?”

  “Mr. Matheson!”

  “Don’t look so aghast, Miss Cabot, for I can’t think of a single reason why you would hide herself from a doctor with a superior coach.”

  Miss Cabot paled. She had nothing to say for herself and bit her bottom lip in a manner that Roan believed was a universal sign of guilt on a woman. He honestly didn’t know if he should deliver a lecture of conduct or bite that lip, too, as he desperately wanted to do. He thought of a man with Aurora under similar circumstances—another lip biter—and inwardly shuddered.

  “Admit it—you were to be in that coach.”

  She lifted her chin, clasped her hands together tightly at her waist. “Yes.”

  Any number of scenarios began to race through Roan’s mind, none of them good. “Is he...are you involved in an affair with him?”

  “What? No!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flooding with color.

  “Are you affianced to him?” he asked, wondering if perhaps she was avoiding her engagement. Again, the similarity to Aurora was uncanny and strangely maddening.

  “Did you not see his wife? He’s married!”

  “Then what is it, Miss Cabot? What has you hiding in these trees like a common criminal?” he demanded, his anger—admittedly, with Aurora—ratcheting.

  “I am not a criminal,” she said hotly.

  “Mmm,” he said dubiously.

  “I was...” She swallowed. She rubbed her nape. “It is true,” she said, putting up her hand, “that Dr. Linford was to escort me to Himple, where I am to be met by Mr. Bulworth, who will see me the rest of the way to my friend Cassandra’s side. But this coach will also stop in Himple.”

  Roan waited for her to say more. At the very least he expected her to say why she was on the stagecoach at all. But Miss Cabot merely shrugged as if that was sufficient explanation.

  It was not.

  “Why didn’t you go with him? Why would you put yourself in an overcrowded stagecoach with any number of potential scoundrels instead of in a coach with springs?” he asked, incredulous.

  Miss Cabot rubbed her nape once more. She sniffed. “It’s rather difficult to explain, really.”

  “Difficult? The only difficulty here is your reluctance to admit whatever it is you’ve done. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re doing.” A thought suddenly occurred to Roan, and anger surged in him. He abruptly grabbed her elbow and pulled her forward. “Has he attempted... Has he taken liberty with you?” he softly demanded and glanced over his shoulder at the others. He would get on the back of one of the horses from the coach and catch up with the bastard if that was the case. He’d break his damn neck—

  “No! No, not at all! Dr. Linford is a good man, a decent man—”

  “Then what in blazes is the matter?”

  Miss Cabot drew herself up to her middling height, removed her arm from his grip with a yank. “I beg your pardon, but I owe you no explanation, Mr. Matheson.”

  “No, you don’t,” he agreed. “And neither do I owe you my help. So I will explain to the driver that you must be met by a responsible party at the very first opportunity—”

  “All right! I thought traveling with the Linfords would be tedious. I thought the stagecoach would be more...” She made a whirling motion with her hand, as if he should understand her and reach the conclusion quickly.

  But he had no idea what she was talking about. He leaned forward, peering at her. “More what?”

  “More—” her gaze flicked over him, top to bottom, and her cheeks bloomed “—exciting,” she murmured.

  That made absolutely no sense. This cake-brained young woman thought a stagecoach would be more exciting than the doctor’s comfortable coach? That a stagecoach with its close quarters and ripe strangers was more exciting than a padded bench? Roan couldn’t help himself—he laughed. Roundly.

  Miss Cabot glared at him. “So happy to amuse you.”

  “Amused? I’m not amused, I’m astounded by your foolishness.”

  She gave a small cry of indignation and whirled about, looking as if she intended to march into the woods, but Roan caught her arm before she could flee, pulling her back. She fell into his chest, landing like a pillow against him.

  “All right, then, unlace your corset a bit,” he said. “But a stagecoach? It’s the worst sort of travel, second only to the sea if you ask me. Whatever would make you think it would be exciting? A walk over hot coals would be more pleasurable.”

  Miss Cabot shrugged free of him and folded her arms across her body. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Her flush had gone deeper. “I’m sorry you found it so reprehensible, Mr. Matheson.”

  Roan blinked. Understanding slowly dawned, and frankly, he could not have been more delighted. Or flattered. But delighted, utterly delighted. “I see,” he said jovially, aware of the wide grin on his face.

  “You don’t.”

  “Oh, I think I do. You wanted to travel with me,” he said, and poked her playfully on the arm.

  “You flatter yourself,” she said imperiously.

  “There is no need for me to flatter myself, because you have flattered me beyond compare,” he said with a theatrical bow. “I’ll admit it, I’m surprised. Granted, I am highly sought after in New York, what with my handsome looks and fat purse...” He was teasing her, but that really wasn’t far from the truth. Just ask Mr. Pratt if it wasn’t true. “But to be admired so by a fair English flower makes my heart pitter-patter.”

  “God in heaven, I could die,” Miss Cabot said, and turned her head.

  Roan laughed. “Please don’t.” He put his hand on her shoulder and coaxed her around. “You’re far too comely to die, and after all, you’ve gone to so much trouble now.” He squeezed her shoulder. He meant to let it go, but his hand slid down her arm, to her wrist.

  She clucked her tongue and turned her head away from him.

  “I am teasing you, Miss Cabot. A rooster can’t help but crow, can he? I am truly flattered.” He moved his hand from her arm to her waist and pulled her closer. “If I’m to be admired, I am very pleased to be admired by someone as beautiful as you.”

  “Oh Lord,” she muttered, blushing furiously. “Don’t trifle with me. I’m mortified as it is.” And yet she made no move to step out of his loose embrace.

  “I am very sincere. Nevertheless, as pleasant as this has been for me, you know very well that you shouldn’t be gallivanting across the countryside with strangers. You could very well fall victim to some rogue on the road. At the next stop, I intend to put you in a private conveyance to Hipple myself.”

  “It’s Himple,” she corrected him, and regrettably, stepped away from him. “And I will see myself there, you need not concern yourself.”

  Just like Aurora. It’s my life to ruin, Roan. You needn’t concern yourself with it.

  “Seeing yourself there is not inconsequential, Miss Cabot. You don’t want to have your reputation marked by an impetuous moment, do you?”

  “No, it’s not inconsequential, Mr. Matheson,” she said pertly. “But the ruin has already been done. I highly doubt that I could make it worse.”

  And what did that mean? Roan wondered. In what way had she been ruined? Or was she prone to overly dramatic interpretations of the events of her life as was Aurora?

&n
bsp; “Ho! The coach!” someone shouted. A cry of relief went up from the other passengers, and there was a sudden flurry of activity, of gathering luggage. As the second stagecoach pulled in behind the first, Roan watched the men over his shoulder a moment, then glanced at Miss Cabot. He looked her over, the purse of her lips, the color in her cheeks. Why were the most alluring women the most trouble? He couldn’t imagine Pratt would never dream of doing what Miss Cabot had done today. Which he supposed was what made her the perfect wife. Didn’t it? At present, Roan would keep telling himself that. He hadn’t actually offered to make Susannah his wife, but it was expected that he would. He expected he would, for all the reasons Susannah was not standing here under this tree with him.

  Yes, he would keep telling himself that.

  Roan looked away from Miss Cabot’s hazel eyes. “I should make myself useful in the repair of the wheel.”

  “Yes, of course.” She held his gaze, watching him closely. A smile slowly appeared. “Thank you for not revealing me to Dr. Linford.”

  He sighed. “I am unduly swayed by the smile of a beautiful woman. It is my cross to bear.”

  Her smile deepened. “I’ll wait on the rocks.” She walked past him—gliding, really, with an elegance that was not learned, he knew from experience. She took a seat where they’d gathered previously, picked up her valise and balanced it on her lap, her hands folded primly on top. She looked straight ahead, as if she were at a garden party.

  Roan couldn’t help his smile as he walked past her and touched her shoulder. “I didn’t thank you.”

  “Thank me?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “For your great esteem,” he said, and winked.

  Miss Cabot muttered something under her breath that sounded very much like rooster and more, then turned her head, fidgeting with a curl at her nape.

  Roan joined the men, discarding his coat. The driver of the second coach had the tools necessary to repair the broken wheel. Roan would have had the wheel repaired more quickly had he been allowed to conduct the work himself. He was familiar with broken wheels; he and his family were in the lumber trade, their teams bringing loads into New York City from as far north as Canada. It was arduous work, cutting and hauling lumber, and Roan had been pressed on more than one occasion to lend a hand to help with the work and the transport. He didn’t mind it—he liked the way physical labor made him feel alive and strong. As a result, he had repaired more wheels and axles and that sort of thing than perhaps even these men had seen.

  But the driver was adamant that the work be done his way.

  The wheel was fixed and attached to the axle, and the men began to load the luggage onto the coach once more. As the team of horses was harnessed, the driver asked the passengers to board.

  Roan donned his coat, then collected his smaller bag from the pile of luggage that would be reloaded. He turned and looked back to the rocks, intending to rally Miss Cabot.

  She was not sitting on the rocks.

  Roan walked into the meadow, scanning the tree line and the road. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Had she boarded the second coach? He looked back to that coach. The passengers were gathering their things and boarding.

  Roan strode back to the second coach. “Excuse me,” he said, and stepped through the passengers to look into the interior. Only a woman and a small girl sat inside.

  Roan turned back to the others. “Have any of you seen a woman? About yay tall,” he said, holding his hand out to indicate her height. “With a bonnet?” he asked, gesturing to his head.

  No one had seen her.

  Roan was baffled. Where could she be? He hurried back to the first coach, where the luggage was now secured. One of the men reached for Roan’s bag, but he held tight. “Have you seen Miss Cabot?” he asked the man. “She got on in Ashton Down.”

  “No, sir,” the man said. “Shall I put your bag up top?”

  “I’ll hold on to it, thank you,” Roan said. He stepped around the coachman and peered into the interior of the first coach. Two gentlemen who had ridden on top put themselves inside next to the young man who was scrunched down on the bench, swallowed in his coat, still holding the battered valise.

  No Miss Cabot.

  A sliver of panic raced up Roan’s spine. He turned to the driver, who was overseeing the last adjustments to the team’s harnesses. “Have you seen Miss Cabot?”

  “The comely one?” the driver asked, squinting up at him.

  Roan didn’t have time to think why it annoyed him the driver would refer to her in that way and said, “Yes, that one.”

  The driver shook his head. “Heeding the call of nature, I’d say.”

  Yes, of course. Roan looked back to the trees across the meadow.

  “Come, then, climb up,” the driver said. “We’re late as it is.”

  “But we’re missing one,” Roan said.

  The driver glanced back at the trees. “I’m not in the business of chasing strays,” he said, and hauled himself up to his seat. “It’s been plain enough we’re on our way. Are you boarding?”

  Roan glared at him. “You would leave a young woman unattended in the middle of the countryside?” he snapped as the second coach pulled around them and began to move down the road.

  “How long do you suggest I wait, Yankee? I’ve a schedule to keep and passengers to deliver. They’ve not had any food. I’ll be lucky to reach Stroud by nightfall.”

  Roan whirled around. “Miss Cabot!” he bellowed. “Miss Cabot, come at once!”

  There was nothing, no answer. They waited, Roan pacing alongside the coach.

  “Come on, then, move on!” shouted one of the men.

  “Last chance, Yankee,” the driver said.

  “What of the luggage?” he demanded, gesturing at the bags and things strapped to the coach. He had helped load her trunk and there it was, strapped onto the coach beneath all the rest, including his trunk.

  “All unclaimed luggage will be left at the next station,” the driver said, and picked up the reins. “Will you board?” he asked once more.

  Roan glanced over his shoulder at the empty meadow.

  “Ack, I’ll not wait,” the driver said, and slapped the reins against his team. He whistled sharply and the stagecoach lurched away, the wheels creaking, the dust rising to envelop Roan as he stood on the side of the road with his bag.

  Where the hell was she? Roan turned a full circle, his gaze scanning the quiet countryside, seeing nothing but a pair of cows grazing across the way.

  And why the hell did he care, precisely? Wasn’t it enough that he had to leave his thriving business in New York to come after Aurora? It was just his luck—Roan’s father was too old to chase after his wayward daughter, and Roan’s brother, Beck, was even younger than Aurora. There had been no one but him, no one who could be depended upon to fetch his sister and bring her home to marry Mr. Gunderson as she had promised she would do.

  He supposed that perhaps contrary to what Aurora had claimed, she didn’t love Mr. Gunderson after all. It had seemed highly improbable to him that she did, really, seeing as how her engagement had been carefully constructed by Roan’s father.

  Rodin Matheson was a visionary, and he’d devised a way to increase the family’s wealth in a manner that would provide generously for generations of Mathesons—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandchildren. All of them. By marrying his daughter to the son of the building empire that was Gunderson Properties, he made certain that Matheson Lumber would be used to build New York City for years to come.

  Roan thought it was brilliant, really, and Aurora had easily agreed to it after a few meetings with Sam Gunderson. “I adore Mr. Gunderson,” she’d said dreamily.

  Perhaps she did...in that moment. That was the problem with Aurora—she flitted from one moment to the next, her mind changing as often as
the hands on the clock.

  It was Mr. Pratt who had suggested to his friend Rodin Matheson that perhaps Roan would be a good match for his daughter Susannah. Mr. Pratt was the owner of Pratt Foundries, and Rodin began to see a bigger, more successful triumvirate of construction. He explained to Roan that between Pratt Foundries, Gunderson Properties and Matheson Lumber, their business and income would soar as they became the construction industry of a growing city.

  It was a heady proposition. Roan had never met Susannah, learning that she summered in Philadelphia. But Mr. Pratt had insisted that his daughter was a delight, a comely, agreeable young woman who would make him a perfect wife. Roan hadn’t thought much about the qualities of a perfect wife—he wasn’t a sentimental man, and when it came to marriage, he accepted it as something that had to be done. Neither had he given much thought as to who he would marry; that had been the furthest thing from his mind as they’d worked to expand Matheson Lumber. He’d supposed that whoever it was, familiarity would eventually breed affection. Affection was all that was necessary, wasn’t it? His parents had found affection somewhere along the way and seemed happy. Roan imagined the same would be true for him. As for siring children, he hardly gave that a thought—he could not imagine any circumstance in which he’d be anything less than willing and eager to do his part.

  And then he’d met Susannah Pratt.

  She’d come to New York just before Roan’s aunt and uncle had returned from England. She was nothing as Mr. Pratt had described, and worse, Roan could not find anything the least bit attractive about her. It was impossible for him to accept that she was the one he was to acquaint himself with and then propose marriage. Privately, he’d chided himself for that—a woman’s value was not in her face, for God’s sake, it was in her soul. So he’d valiantly tried to see beyond her appearance. Unfortunately, she was not the least bit engaging. He could find no common ground, and even if he had, the woman was painfully shy and afraid to look him in the eye.

  Just before his aunt and uncle had come home, he had decided he would speak to Susannah about her true desires. Perhaps she found him as odious as he found her. Perhaps she was desperate for escape from this loose arrangement.