Page 47 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
“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, nowthere’sa 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.
* * *
ASITHAPPENED, 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.
