The Scoundrel and the Debutante. Julia London

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      “Oh!” Mrs. Tricklebank cried. “Come, come, Ruth! We don’t want to miss the coach,” she said frantically, as if they were miles from the coach instead of the few feet that they were. Both women gathered their things and hurried back to the coach, clutching one another’s arms, their pails bumping against their hips.

      Roan wrapped what was left of the bread and cheese once more, a bit embarrassed by how much of it he’d eaten. “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Cabot. I’ll see to it your supplies are replenished.”

      Her smile was so sunny, Roan felt it slip right through him. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I shall reach my destination by the end of the day.”

      “Are you certain? Those two might convince the driver to stop and hold an inquisition.”

      She laughed. “They’re harmless, really. I think they are much in love with the sound of their own voices.” She gave him a saucy smile and hopped off the fence railing. She stooped to pick up her valise. Roan unthinkingly took it from her hand and politely offered his arm to her.

      She kept that pert little smile as she laid her hand on his arm so carefully that he could scarcely feel it. He looked at her. He didn’t want to see a young woman of obvious privilege with the same misguided sensibilities as his sister. “Pardon, but how is it that you are traveling without escort?” he asked. “Not a maid? Not a groom?”

      Miss Cabot smiled as if his was a trifling question and averted her gaze. “Don’t you think it is interesting how people are so keen to fret over such small details?”

      Small detail, indeed. That was precisely the sort of answer his incorrigible sister would give—an answer that answered nothing at all. “I’m not fretting,” he said. “Merely curious.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Matheson, for not fretting.” She flashed another smile at him, but this one was a bit more cautious.

      Yes, there was definitely something amiss with this beauty, he would stake his fortune on it. But he had enough trouble brewing in England to delve too deeply.

      When they reboarded, Roan noticed the boy had moved to the seats on top of the coach, still holding tight to the battered valise. Roan helped Miss Cabot into the coach, his fingers closing around the small bones of her elbow, his hand on the small of her back to guide her. He waited until she was seated, then put himself on the step, and looked inside, determining how he would fit himself onto the bench beside her and directly across from the old man once more.

      “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable there?” Mrs. Scales asked him, pointing to the tiny bit of bench between her sister and the old man. “There’s more room, isn’t there?” And to Miss Cabot, she said, “The gentleman takes up quite a lot of space.”

      He couldn’t believe this woman would impugn his size again. She was fortunate that he had been raised properly and did not voice aloud his opinion of her girth.

      “Oh, I think one spot is as good as the other,” Miss Cabot said smoothly. She scooted over. Roan eyed the bench warily. Miss Cabot scooted more. He glanced at her, silently pleading for more space. With a slight roll of her eyes, Miss Cabot scooted all the way into the doughy side of Mrs. Scales.

      He stepped inside—hunched over in that confined space—and somehow managed to settle himself on the bench beside her. Miss Cabot shifted to free her arm from behind him, but when she settled once more, her elbow settled firmly in his ribs and would no doubt poke him with every bounce the coach made.

      As the coach began to move, Mrs. Scales fixed a slightly suspicious gaze on Miss Cabot. “May I inquire, to where are you traveling today, Miss Cabot?”

      Roan could feel Miss Cabot shift about, uncomfortable with the busybody’s scrutiny of her. “Actually, I am on my way to see a dear friend. She’s just been delivered of her first child.”

      “Oh, a baby!” Mrs. Tricklebank said.

      “Yes, a baby!” Miss Cabot agreed enthusiastically. “Poor thing sent a messenger and begged me to come straightaway. It’s her first child and she’s feeling a bit at sixes and sevens.”

      “She didn’t send someone for you?” Mrs. Scales asked. “One would think you might have had some escort,” she added curiously.

      Miss Cabot’s elegant neck began to turn pink. “There was no time. My friend hasn’t any help with the baby, and I think she can’t do without her husband.”

      “Hmm,” Mrs. Scales said gravely.

      She rankled Roan. Who was she to pass judgment on Miss Cabot? He didn’t believe her, either, and thought she was up to mischief because he was well versed in the way young women dissembled. But he wouldn’t prosecute her for it as Mrs. Scales seemed determined to do. “An interesting custom,” he said, fixing a cold gaze on Mrs. Scales. “Is it common to interrogate fellow passengers on every stagecoach, or just this one?”

      Mrs. Scales blinked. She drew her mouth into a bitter pucker. Miss Cabot graciously looked away from the old crone and pretended to gaze out the window. But he could see her smile.

      The coach swayed down the road at a fine clip, and the eyelids of the coach inhabitants eventually began to grow heavy. Before long, Miss Cabot began to sag. Roan tried to ease her toward Mrs. Scales for the sake of propriety, but Mrs. Scales had also nodded off and Roan couldn’t manage it. Miss Cabot’s head—or more accurately, her bonnet—settled adamantly onto his shoulder, and the ghastly feather that protruded from the crown bounced in his eye. Roan tried to turn his head to avoid it, but it was impossible, especially given his desire not to jostle and wake her. Or more important, his desire not to wake Mrs. Roly or Mrs. Poly.

      He himself felt his lids sliding shut when a sudden bump in the road startled Miss Cabot, and her elbow protruded so deeply into his side that he feared she might have punctured his liver. But the coach was quickly swaying again, and the passengers settled once more. Save the old man, whose gaze was still fixed on Roan.

      But then the coach suddenly dipped sharply to the right, tossing them all about, and over an expletive loudly shouted from the driver, it shuddered to a definite halt.

       CHAPTER THREE

      PRUDENCE’S CHIN BOUNCED off something very hard, and her hand sank into something soft. Her first groggy thought was that it was a lumpy pillow. But when her eyes flew open, she saw that her chin had connected with Mr. Matheson’s shoulder...and her hand with his lap.

      He stared wryly at her as awareness dawned on her. She gasped; he very deliberately reached up to remove the tip of her bonnet’s feather that was poking him in the eye.

      Prudence could feel the heat flood her cheeks and quickly sat up. She straightened her bonnet, which had somehow been pushed to one side. “What has happened?” she exclaimed, shuffling out from the wedge between Mrs. Scales and Mr. Matheson to the edge of the bench, desperate that no part of her was touching any part of that very virile man. But her hip was still pressed so tightly against his thigh that she could feel the slightest shift of muscle beneath his buckskins.

      It was alarmingly provocative. Prudence didn’t move an inch for several seconds, allowing that feeling to imprint itself in her skin.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ