The Scoundrel and the Debutante

by Julia London

  What was it to this man? Roan responded with a dark look for the man.

  The clerk did not seem to care that Roan looked at him in that way. He turned back to the paper and said, “The Cabot trunk will be picked up by Mr. Barton Bulworth’s man at noon on the morrow.” He removed his monocle then and looked at the two of them.

  Roan could feel the tension radiating off Prudence. “Tomorrow?” she repeated, and looked at Roan uncertainly. He knew what she was thinking—what was she to do until the morrow?

  “Aye,” the clerk confirmed. “And you, sir? Where am I to have the trunk delivered?”

  Roan stared at the man. “I’ll take it with me. I intend to be on the four o’clock stage for West Lee.”

  “You want the southbound coach. It’s come and gone, comes through promptly at one o’clock—”

  “Ah...I think the gentleman means Weslay,” Prudence quickly interjected. “It’s his accent,” she added, a bit softer, and avoided making eye contact with Roan.

  “Ah!” the clerk said triumphantly, and smiled. “A Yankee, I’d wager. I’ve heard the accent is a wee bit coarse.”

  “Coarse?” Roan echoed.

  “The northbound coach came through at three o’clock,” the clerk said. “Right on time, too.”

  Roan gaped at him. This journey was nothing but one obstacle after the other. He felt as if he might come apart at the seams, just as a tent had come apart with a strong gust of wind at a wedding celebration he’d attended several years ago. “Three!” he said, his fury hardly contained. It was only twenty past.

  The clerk casually braced his elbow on the counter and said easily, “The afternoon northbound stage comes by at three o’clock. Every day, three o’clock. Why, he’s never more than a quarter hour late. Unless there’s rain. If there’s rain, he might be a bit delayed,” the clerk said, settling in, warming to his explanation. “A good rain can slow the best drivers, you know, what with the roads in the condition they are. I remember the year it rained every day. Not a light rain mind you, but heavy rains. They lost a bridge up at Portrees, but the Royal Post, it still ran. Just ran late every day, sometimes as much as four or five hours. Sometimes as much as a day—”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Prudence said sweetly, stepping forward a bit, putting herself between Roan and the clerk. “We find ourselves in a bit of a dilemma. I should call on Mrs. Bulworth at once. Surely there is some method of transport to the Bulworth estate?”

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not this time of day. Had you come earlier, you might have talked the dry-goods man into taking you. I believe he was out that way. But you’re too late. You can ride with the Bulworth man on the morrow. Not too many go in that direction from here. You came the long way to reach the Bulworth estate, didn’t you? Them that goes to Bulworth come down from Epsey.”

  Prudence glanced helplessly at Roan.

  “There is no other way we might continue our journey?” he asked. “No cab for hire, no portage?”

  “Not through Himple, no sir. There’s an inn down the lane here, the Fox and Sparrow,” the man said, gesturing to his right. “It’s a decent inn, if you ask me. One wing is for the gentlemen, the other for families.” He looked at Prudence again. “Mrs. House is the innkeeper’s wife. You might tell her you fell on hard times. She doesn’t usually take in single women.”

  “Pardon?” Prudence said, her brows dipping into a frown. “Why shouldn’t Mrs. House accept single women?”

  “When is the next coach?” Roan asked, cutting Prudence off and surreptitiously touching her hand to keep her from protesting.

  “Ten o’clock on the morrow,” the man said. “It will be on time, too, as it’s a Royal Post. Never tardy, not the Royal Post, not unless there’s rain. Otherwise, you could set your pocket watch by them, that’s certain. Old Mr. Stainsbury, he sets the church clock—”

  “Is there a porter around? Someone who can see our trunks to the inn?” Roan interrupted.

  “Eh? Oh,” the clerk said, clearly disappointed to be cut short. “I’ll have the post boys bring them up. They’ll expect a few coins for their trouble. They’ll carry up a bath, too, if needed.” He glanced again at Prudence.

  She gasped. Her hand went to her hair, no doubt discovering that another tress had come down.

  “The post boys, now there’s a set of riders who won’t tarry—”

  “Thank you,” Roan said quickly. He opened the door and held it open for Prudence. “Miss Cabot?”

  Prudence swept out before him, mortified. “I think I might die of shame,” she said when Roan stepped out behind her. She tried to tuck her hair back in.

  “That would be a tragic ending to our outing,” he said. He took off his hat and ran his hand over his head.

  “What are we to do?” she asked.

  “We’ll take rooms at the inn.” He smiled at her. “And we’ll give the boys a crown to bring up the bath the clerk thinks you ought to have.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Prudence started marching in the direction of the inn.

  * * *

  AS IT HAPPENED, there were no rooms left for single men, a fact Roan happened to overhear when he stepped inside to let the rooms with a bit of money Prudence had pinned to her pocket. That settled it to Roan’s satisfaction. He didn’t want to be away from Prudence, not after all they’d been through. And yet, he’d felt terribly presumptive that he would share a bed with her, not with the truth of their lives tearing through the curtain they’d pulled around themselves. Roan had taken enough from her. But he wanted more. God, how he wanted more.

  He was, therefore, almost elated to learn there were no single rooms left.

  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 hor
se. 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.

  She opened one eye and smiled with surprised. “Will you?”

  He picked up the ewer from the basin. “I will.” He brought the wine bottle and their cups first, and set them on the floor. He moved her things from the chair and sat, then dipped the ewer into the water. Prudence sat up and leaned forward; he poured water over her hair to wet it, watching the water and her hair stream down her back.

  “I think Mrs. Bulworth will be very appreciative that I arrive in clean dress and with my hair properly put up,” she said with a wry smile. “She won’t know how she owes you a debt for it.”

  Roan smiled and lathered her hair.

  Prudence sighed and closed her eyes again, relaxing as he washed her hair. “I will miss you,” she said softly. “Is that madness? I’ve known you a day and a half, and yet I know I will miss you more than breath.”

  Roan hesitated a moment before continuing in the work of washing her hair. He would miss her, too—just how much he would miss her amazed him. “I will miss you, too,” he admitted.

  He dipped the ewer and poured it over her hair to rinse it. She said nothing as he finished her hair and put down the ewer.

  Prudence grabbed his hand. “Come in,” she said.

  He laughed. “That wash tub won’t accommodate us both.”

  “It will,” she said, and drew her knees up to her chest.

  Roan very much doubted that they could fit in the tub, but he wasn’t above trying. He quickly disrobed, aware that Prudence’s eyes were on him, her gaze brazenly sliding over his body, drinking him in. More than one woman had seen him bare as he was now, but this was the first time that Roan could recall wanting a woman to find him as appealing as he found her. He stepped into the tub, braced his hands against the edges, and carefully lowered himself in. Water sloshed over the sides when he did, and Prudence laughed with delight. Roan was stuffed into that bath, but grateful for the wash.

  She helped him, rubbing soap on his chest, on his neck and face. He helped her, too, lathering up her breasts, her abdomen. She laughed at him when he dipped his head to wet it, and she came up on her knees to return the favor of a hair wash. “Shall I shave you? I shaved the earl when he was no longer able.”

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  Prudence reached over the side of the tub and found the razor he’d taken out, the cream for his face. She smiled as she leaned forward and carefully scraped the two days’ growth of beard from his face.

  When they had cleaned themselves, Roan poured wine for them both. He liked this, sitting in a bath with Prudence. Her hair was slicked back, and her breasts rode just above the water line, her face softly golden in the light of the fire. Roan had never been so captivated, never so content.

  They talked about family, and horses and dogs, of which they shared a love. He told her about a canal so many of them were trying to see built, from Lake Erie to New York City. “It will change commerce as we know it,” Roan said.

  Prudence told him what she would recall of her father, who had died when she was rather young, and of the person her mother had been before her madness. “She was so beautiful,” she said wistfully. She told him about her mother’s second marriage to the Earl of Beckington, who clearly had loved his many stepdaughters. She told him about London society, and the balls and garden parties and many soirees. She laughed ruefully. “Those days are behind me now, I’m afraid.”

  That sobered him. If ever a woman deserved to be toast of a ball, it was Prudence. He could picture her in an expensive ball gown, jewels glittering at her ears and throat, her smile illuminating those around her. “What will you do?” he asked quietly. “After you’ve called on your friend?”

  “Assuming Merryton hasn’t sent an army after me?” Prudence asked, and splashed him. “I suppose I’ll return to Blackwood Hall and wait.”

  “Wait,” Roan repeated, not understanding. “For what?”

  Prudence shrugged. “For an offer.”

  Roan must have showed his dismay at that, because she smiled and wiggled her toes against him. “Don’t be glum, Roan. It’s what debutantes do. What else is there for us, really?”

  “But surely you are allowed an occupation.”

  Prudence laughed. “Such as governess or teacher? I wouldn’t mind it—in fact, I should like it very much. I always fancied I’d have lots of children. I don’t know what will become of me, but young ladies of certain standing are not meant to work. They are meant to marry well and arrange seating cards at supper parties.” She smiled and flicked water against his chest again. “I envy Mercy in some ways. She found her escape from the tedium through art. I should have been as diligent in my endeavors.”

  Roan tried to smile, but he could see the hint of despair and apathy in her lovely eyes, and it made him slightly ill.

  Prudence looked away. She s
ipped her wine and put it aside. She trailed her fingers over bathwater that was now tepid, if not cool. “Our adventure comes to an end on the morrow, doesn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t have to end there,” he said recklessly. Those hazel eyes could entice him to anything—to ignore his morals, his responsibilities. He knew it, but spoke his heart anyway. “Come north with me.”

  Prudence smiled and looked up. “And do what? Present myself as your cousin? To people who might actually be acquainted with my family? And if I do, then what? It would end the day after that, would it not?”

  Roan wanted desperately to say what she wanted to hear—that he would stay in England, or that somehow, against all odds, they would find a way to continue their adventure, and that he would court her properly. That he would make that offer she was waiting for. Perhaps he wanted to say those things to himself. But it was impossible—he had a family, a life, a thriving business in America, and people who were depending on the promise he’d made to his father about Susannah Pratt. Moreover, he had to take Aurora home. Aurora had made promises, too, but more than that, his mother was frantic about her daughter. He had to return her to his mother, if nothing else. As much as he would have liked to, as desperately as he wanted to, Roan simply couldn’t play swain to Prudence’s debutante.

  She misunderstood his silence. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I knew from the beginning that no matter what happened, this would never be more than a lark. I will look back on these few days with great fondness and...and gratitude.”

  “Gratitude,” he said bitterly, and closed his eyes. He felt awful—anxious and angry, at complete odds with himself. “A strange word, given that I have taken terrible advantage of you, Pru. I have taken something from you that can’t be replaced.”

  “Roan!” She sat up and cupped his chin with her hand. “How can you say so? I followed you. I gave you every indication. I wanted you so, Roan. I wanted you to touch me. I wanted to feel—” She groaned. “I wanted to feel all of it! I’m not a girl. I knew what I was doing.”