Page 87 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
“I won’t be traipsing at all,” Aurora said. “Mercy is coming with me.”
“Please don’t deny me the opportunity to gad about, Mr. Matheson,” Mercy said. “I’ll be entering the Lisson Grove School of Art soon, and I won’t have the luxury of time to call on friends.” She stood up and gathered her gloves. “Good day, Honor! Good day, Mr. Matheson!”
Aurora stood up and kissed Roan lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back by two, I promise.” She and Mercy flitted out of the room like a pair of kittens.
The room was silent when they’d gone; Roan looked at Mrs. Easton.
She was watching him closely. “Tomorrow?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Prudence didn’t tell me,” she said carefully.
“She doesn’t know. She won’t be accompanying me, Mrs. Easton, so you may rest easy. If you will excuse me, I have quite a lot to do before we take our leave on the morrow.” He bowed his head and went out before she could question him.
Roan didn’t know how to leave England, quite honestly. How did one quit something like this? He felt completely vacant inside, as if he was leaving something large and important and vital behind and carrying a shell back to America. It annoyed him—Roan had never thought himself this man. He’d thought himself above common emotions and wants. Not that he hadn’t wondered what it would be like to truly love a woman, but now he knew, and he didn’t care for it. To love a woman was to become a mere ghost of a man.
He walked out of the dining room, eager to leave the house on Audley Street. As he walked to the foyer, however, he saw Prudence standing in the door of Easton’s study. She had changed her gown, but she looked even worse than she had last night. He paused, looking at her, willing her to say something, to take it all back.
“Please don’t hate me,” she said. “I never meant to hurt you.”
God,she sounded like Aurora now.“I don’t hate you, Pru. I could never hate you,” he said softly. “I love you. But I won’t lie to spare your feelings. I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed.”
“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 alongvoyage.”
“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.
