Page 67 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
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.
In Manchester, he secured a room for them at the public inn. But the long journey from Weslay had been so uncomfortably jarring, and the day so thick and warm, that they’d collapsed onto a lumpy bed and slept like the dead. They were up at dawn again the next morning, boarding a coach that, impossibly, was even more crowded than the one to Manchester.
After another interminable day of riding apart due to the crowding, of their private thoughts carrying them away from each other, Roan and Prudence arrived in London. It was half-past eight, and the sun was beginning to set. Roan worried about Prudence; she seemed to be swaying lightly on her feet, exhausted to the bone by her adventure.
“I’ll find us a place for the night,” he said, his hand on her waist to steady her.
“Oh no,” she said, and put her hand on his arm. She smiled, but there was no heart in it. “I’ve lived half my life in London—people around Mayfair know me. It’s best that we go to my sister.”
Roan didn’t like it, but he understood it. He rubbed his temples and realized that his head was pounding with a terrible ache. When had that come on him? “I’ll take you there,” he said. “Give me the direction and I will take you to your sister.”
She looked down and fidgeted with the string of her reticule. “What will you do?”
He would find a place to drink away his grief. “I’ll find a room somewhere.”
The last slivers of pink were beginning to fade from the late-evening sky when they arrived at the house on Audley Street. The air was so thick now that it pressed against Roan’s throat and chest. He looked up at the house Prudence directed them to. It was painted a sunny yellow, four stories tall with balconies on the top three floors. The windows facing the street—sixteen in all—stood as tall as Roan. Light was glowing invitingly through the windows.
The hackney driver had deposited them on the street along with their trunks. Prudence sat heavily on them and stared up at the house. “I don’t know what to say,” she said absently.
Roan sat beside her, put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “I’ll tell them what has happened. Leave it to me.”
“You’re a dear,” Prudence said with a smile. “Thank you...but somehow, I think that would make it all worse.” She turned his head to her and kissed him, her lips lingering on his for one crystal moment.
“What will you tell them?”
She shrugged. “The truth, I expect.” She smiled. “Most of it, that is.”
Her eyes shone up at him, and Roan suddenly felt lost. “Pru,” he said, his voice rough with the emotions that rushed through him, regret and hope in one unsettling mix. He stood up, pulling her with him, his arms around her, his face in her hair, her neck. He couldn’t bear that the end could be near. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving England without her. He lifted his head, held hers between his hands. “It’s only been a few days, but I can’t imagine being without you.”
“Neither can I,” she said softly. “In truth, I can’t imagine much of anything at present, only that I don’t want to go on without you.”
“Then don’t,” he said.
Prudence smiled ruefully and pulled his hand from her face and leaned back. “If only it were that simple. We must go in, Roan.”
