Page 51 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
She heard Roan behind her, rising from the bed. She heard water splashing at the basin, then his rummaging about for the things he needed. She busied herself at her trunk so that he would not see the tears that burned behind her eyes, a peculiar mix of both happiness and sick regret.
Was it possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? Was it possible to find someone so completely compatible by mere chance? How could she ever think of another man with the impression of Roan’s hands on her body? How could she ever look at another pair of eyes and not see the golden topaz of his? How would she live the rest of her tedious life, knowing that her heart was somewhere on the other side of the ocean?
It would be her secret burden to bear, the thing she carried with her always. Prudence could picture herself at family dinners, her heart aching as everyone laughed around her. When matches were made, when babies were born, when Christmases were celebrated, and her sisters gathered their loved ones around them Prudence would think of Roan.
It was unfair, so terribly unfair. And yet, it was.
Roan dressed as Prudence occupied herself with putting on her dress and packing her things. She would not let Roan see her distress, she would not be a mewling debutante, pawing at her lover. She meant what she’d said—she knew exactly what she’d been about when she put herself on that stagecoach. She couldn’t have imagined all that would happen, but she’d known what she was doing, and now she would live with the consequences. By God, she would watch him depart today with her head held high.
Prudence prepared herself to watch him leave, and in fact she preferred it that way, that he go first. She was certain she might hold her feelings at a good distance until his coach had gone down the road. But as her rotten luck would have it, the Bulworth man appeared at the inn before noon, over two hours early.
“I understood you’d not come for the trunk until noon,” Roan said crossly, as if it were the poor man’s fault he’d come early.
“I dunno, milord,” the man said as he kneaded his hat in his hands. He looked to be eighteen or nineteen years of age. He had a scattering of whiskers on his chin and his nervousness erupted into splotches of red on his cheeks. “I just come when Mr. Bulworth tell me to.”
“It’s all right,” Prudence, said, and put her hand on Roan’s arm. He looked a bit different to her this morning, with his hair combed and his jaw clean-shaven. Even more virile, more imposing, a feat she would not have thought possible. But his eyes were different—the shine was gone from them. They looked almost brown to her now, and the tiny little lines of worry around them made him look a bit sad.
“Well,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “I guess we must say our farewells, mustn’t we?” She smiled at the Bulworth man. “That’s my trunk just there,” she said.
He nodded, donned his cap and picked up her trunk, managing to hoist it onto his shoulder.
Prudence gamely tried to smile at Roan, but she couldn’t manage it. “I’d ask you to write, but it seems rather futile, and I think it will only distress me more—”
He suddenly grasped her hand. “You can still come with me to West Lee.”
“Weslay,” she muttered.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We might say you are my cousin. Cousin Prudence and Aurora’s companion, to see her home.”
“Roan! The moment I uttered a word they will know I’m not an American. And it is quite possible that I will know someone there. Penfors is a viscount, you know. He may have been acquainted with my stepfather, or Merryton.”
“But—”
“But,”she said, grasping both of his hands in hers, “I must go, and so must you. Is there really any other option? As much as I would...as I would loveto carry on with you, I’ve pushed every boundary. I’ll be lucky to see the outside of Blackwood Hall as it is. And more than that, I don’t know if I can bear it. The more I am with you, the more I want...everything. Do you understand me?”
Roan sighed. He squeezed her hands in his. “Yes, of course I understand you. You’re right, Pru. Were it not for Aurora...” He shook his head and glanced down. “To come with me would be far too foolish...even for you.” He glanced up and smiled ruefully. “When will you return to Blackwood Hall? I’ll come to see you before we go—”
“No!” she exclaimed, and stole a look at the boy. “That’s impossible.”
“I must—”
“No,”she said again. Her face was heating. “It will be worse if you come.”
He looked stung, but Prudence couldn’t bear it if he came to Blackwood Hall.
Roan gripped her hand tighter. “I’m not ready for you to go, Prudence. I may never be ready for it, but I can’t—” He clenched his jaw and looked away.
His words were an arrow that pierced her heart. “Why couldn’t you be English?” she moaned.
“Why couldn’t you be American? We’re star-crossed, Pru. There’s no other damn way to look at it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Prudence bit her lip to keep the sob lodged in her throat from escaping. “Well,” she said. “I suppose I ought to...” She gestured to the wagon where the Bulworth man waited.
“Yes.” Roan swallowed. He offered his arm, and then escorted Prudence to the wagon and helped her up onto the seat. Prudence leaned over and kissed his cheek. She hated that most of all—it was the sort of kiss she might have given Augustine, the polite, chaste, so-good-to-see-you-again kiss that society and propriety allowed, and it was maddening.
Roan stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back. “Godspeed, Miss Cabot.”
“To you as well, Mr. Matheson.”
