Julia London - The Scoundrel and the Debutante

The coach suddenly lurched forward, and Miss Cabot was tossed against him. She turned her head slightly toward him and smiled apologetically. “I do so beg your pardon,” she said. “It’s awfully close, isn’t it?” She resituated herself, her back perfectly straight once more, her hands on her lap.

But it was hopeless. Every rut in the road, every bounce, pressed her body against his—once, causing her to brace herself with her small hand to his thigh—and Roan was reminded with each passing mile how softly pliant she felt against him, how insubstantial she seemed, and yet strangely sturdy at the same time. He looked out the window and tried not to think of her lying naked on soft white linens, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders, her breasts pert. He managed it by looking at the old man every time his thoughts drifted in that direction.

They’d been gone only one excruciating hour when one of the women took a deep breath in her endless conversation and announced loudly, “I know who you are! You’re Lady Merryton!”

All eyes riveted on Miss Cabot, including Roan’s.

“Not at all!” she exclaimed.

“No?” The woman seemed dubious.

“ No ! I assure you, if I were Lady Merryton, I’d travel by private coach.” Miss Cabot smiled.

“Yes, I suppose,” the woman said, looking disappointed.

What, did the old crow really believe royalty would be carted about the countryside in a public coach? Even Roan knew better than that. He didn’t keep up with the princes and queens and whatnot of England, but he assumed a “lady” was some sort of royalty. When his aunt and uncle had returned from London this summer—without Aurora, whose person had been placed with all due confidence by Roan’s family in their care—they’d talked quite a lot about an earl here, a viscount there. Aurora dined with Lady This, danced with Lord That. Roan had paid little heed, and because he had not, he was at a disadvantage—he had no idea what the significance of any of it was, only that royalty seemed to abound in England.

“But I am acquainted with Lady Merryton,” Miss Cabot added casually.

Roan cocked his head to one side, trying to see her face. She was acquainted with Lady Merryton? What was she, a countess or some such thing? Didn’t that make her the daughter of a queen and king? And did that therefore mean that Miss Cabot kept company with kings and queens?

“Just as well you’re not her, I think, what with all the folderol around that marriage, eh?” The larger woman snorted and shook her head.

“Simply shocking,” the smaller agreed.

Roan could see the blush creep into Miss Cabot’s neck. He didn’t know what folderol meant, but as both sisters were practically congratulating each other on their opinions, it made him very curious.

The women looked as if they were poised to ask more questions, but the coach began to slow. Roan leaned forward a bit, could see a row of whitewashed cottages with red and purple flowers spilling out of the window boxes. They’d arrived in a village he’d seen earlier today, and if he were not mistaken, there was nothing here but a change of horses. Yet he, for one, could not wait to be disgorged from this coach.

They rolled into the village, and the coach swayed to one side as the coachman hopped down from the seats atop to open the door and release the step. Roan was always a gentleman, but today, he could not help himself from launching out of the interior of the crowded coach and taking several steps away to drag some much needed air into his lungs, and hopefully, erase the feel of Miss Cabot against him from his flesh. By the time he turned about, the coachman had helped all the passengers from the interior, and the boy was assisting the old man onto a bench. The two ladies, likewise regurgitated from the coach, stood in identical fashion, their hands on the small of their backs, bending backward...and still talking.

Miss Cabot was standing apart from the others, holding a small wrapped package. She looked remarkably fresh, cheerful as a bluebell in her blue traveling gown.

The driver strolled into their midst with the posture of a mayor in spite of his dirty breeches, worn shoes and a waistcoat that seemed two sizes too small. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ladies and gents!” he announced grandly. “The coach will depart at a quarter past two.”

Roan glanced around him. There was a small public inn and a smithy, but very little else. He would very much like to drown the morning with a pint or two, but instead began striding down the road, needing to stretch his legs and shake off the exquisitely torturous feeling of having a lovely young woman pressed practically into his lap for the past hour and a half. It wouldn’t hurt him to find the last tattered remnants of his patience, either. He paused, searching for it. It was not available.

Roan was not generally an impatient man. On the contrary—he thought most would say he could be depended upon to be the center of calm in the midst of a storm. But he was devilishly out of sorts—he’d been in England for all of two days and could still feel the sea swells beneath his legs after a month at sea. He’d been turned completely around by the fellows in Liverpool, who, he’d realized after some minutes of trying to understand them, were actually speaking English to him. Those lads had sent him on this fool’s errand, sent him south when he should have gone north.

Moreover, Roan was a man accustomed to fine carriages and better steeds. Not stagecoaches on rutted roads, squashed in between a dirty squab and a woman with skin that felt as smooth as butter.

He came to a full stop in the road and breathed deeply of the warm air. The short walk had not improved his mood as much as he would have liked. He turned his face up to a bright blue sky and roared his frustration with his missteps, with his sister, with everything in general.

Now he felt better.

Roan pivoted about and strode back to the little hamlet.

He spied Miss Cabot perched on top of a fence post. She had opened the package she’d held protectively in her lap and appeared to be eating something. Next to the fence, the sisters were seated side by side on a trunk, each with a pail in their lap. They, too, appeared to be eating.

Roan strolled to Miss Cabot’s side. He tried not to ogle what was in her lap, but he couldn’t resist it, particularly as a quick review of the past twenty-four hours reminded him that he’d not eaten.

Miss Cabot glanced up, turning her head so that he could see her hazel eyes from beneath the deep brim of her bonnet. “Oh. Mr. Matheson.”

“Miss Cabot.”

She held up the brown cheesecloth so that a variety of small bites were displayed just below his nose. “May I offer you a sweetmeat?”

He peered more closely at the contents. They looked like the fried cakes that Nella, his family’s longtime cook, often made. “No, thank you.” He wasn’t so out of sorts as to take her food.

“No?” She took one and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, and closed her eyes a moment. “Delicious.”

Much to his consternation, Roan’s stomach grumbled.

Miss Cabot smiled and held up the cheesecloth a little closer to him. “You must at least try one. ”

“You don’t mind?” he asked, but he was already reaching for one.

She watched him closely as he put the morsel in his mouth. Good God, she was right—it was delicious.

“Have another. Have as many as you like.”

“Perhaps one more,” Roan said gratefully, reaching. When he opened his palm, he found three instead of the one he’d intended.

Miss Cabot laughed, the sound of it crystal and light. “One might think you’ve not eaten today, Mr. Matheson.”