Page 65 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
The door suddenly opened and a rush of air swept across her face.
“Good God.” Roan was suddenly beside her, helping her up, his hands caressing her face and her hair as if searching for an injury. “Tell me. It’s Stanhope, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, his expression turning to hot fury. “Did he do something? Did he touch you, did he—”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “He didn’t touch me. He was a perfect gentleman. But he knows who I am,” Prudence said. “He knows.”
The color drained from Roan’s face. He shook his head, refusing to believe it.
“He knows that I’m Prudence Cabot.”
Roan sat back; his hands fell away from her face. “What did he say? What does he want?”
She laughed bitterly. “Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “That’s what he said. He wanted nothing. He’d not reveal my secret.” She laughed again, this time more in awe of her own stupidity. “I may be a fool, but I’m not naive—”
“Damn him,” Roan said. He stood up, his hands on his waist. “Damnhim.”
“I have to go home,” Prudence said sadly. “I must be there when word is out.”
Roan looked worried. He took her hand to pull her up, then pressed his palm to her neck as his gaze moved over her face. “Where, to Blackwood Hall? I’ll take you there if that’s what you want, Pru. I’ll explain.”
Prudence shook her head. “To London, to my sister Honor. She’ll know what to do.” She swallowed down the bitter truth of what she must do. “She and Augustine must hear this from me.”
Roan’s gaze was fixed on her. Prudence could sense his struggle, wanting to make this right, but perfectly unable to do it. What could he possibly do? Give up everything in America and marry her? “Yes, of course,” he said, his voice strained. “I’ll go now and arrange for a carriage to take us in the morning.”
“No,” Prudence said, and gripped his hand. “Please don’t go yet—”
“Only to arrange a carriage,” he said, cupping her face tenderly. “I’ll come back to you in moments.”
“Not yet, Roan, please,” she said, catching his hand. “Because when you walk out that door, even if only to arrange a carriage, it’s the beginning of the end. I don’t want it to be the end yet. Not yet. Please don’t go. Not yet.”
Roan’s face fell. “Oh, love.” He folded his arms around her and held her tightly, rocking with her a moment, his mouth in her hair. But then his hands began to move on her, slowly caressing her, and Prudence’s blood began to flow with his touch. She could feel her skin heating, her heart running. She had to have these last few hours in his arms, and closed her eyes, surrendering to the moment, pushing all else from her mind.
She was consumed the moment he touched her. His lips, soft and warm, glided over her skin. His touch, intense but reverent, made her feel as if she were floating in a pool of desire. It spiraled down her body, flowed into her breasts and groin. She began to drift on that sea, his hands and mouth pushing her further and further from shore. Every touch sizzled and burned, every kiss tingled.
Prudence was aware of her gown falling away—first the train, then the buttons of her gown, his fingers deft and quick, and the slide of the fabric down her body. Next her chemise and undergarments drifted away. “How is it that you look even more beautiful with every passing moment?” he muttered, and Prudence’s desire turned to liquid heat. She touched his shoulder, her fingers trailing down his chest to his waistcoat, which she unbuttoned. She undressed him as he slipped his palms under her breasts.
“I don’t want it to end,” she said, and pulled his shirt over his head. Roan growled with desire; Prudence rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his nose, his eyes, his cheeks as he worked on the rest of his clothing, tossing the articles aside.
When he’d removed it all, he picked her up and moved to the bed, laid her down and locked his gaze with hers as he moved over her. Prudence imagined she could see the same yearning in his eyes, the wish that this would never end. The same determination to have it all, here and now, because he might never have it again. He kissed the hollow of her throat, lingering there, and the curve of her neck, then traced a path from her neck to her breast. He took each breast in his mouth, lavished them with attention. Prudence let the desire roll over her in great, lapping waves, sinking deeper into the depths of the pleasure until she was suspended in it. She abandoned all maidenly anxiety at being unpracticed in the art of lovemaking and cast herself out, willing to go where he led her, no matter what.
Roan pressed against her. “How I want you,” he said. “I think I could die of wanting you.”
“Don’t.” She brushed his hair from his face.
Roan drew a rigid nipple into his mouth. His mouth was like fire, his fingers the torches he used to inflame her. He stroked her, his touch sinking deeper into her folds, boldly exploring and teasing her. He pressed his body into hers, filling her, and Prudence closed her eyes so that she’d feel it all, not miss a moment of it.
He didn’t speak as he moved in her, his rhythm deliberate, tantalizing, his hands stroking her, teasing her. He slipped an arm under her hips and lifted her slightly, sliding in deeply. The sensation was so pleasantly raw that Prudence lost sight of herself and everything else but the feel of his body in hers, of his strength and tenderness and adoration. He slid in and out of her while his thumb began a gentle, swirling assault over and around the nub of her arousal. Prudence was panting, gripping at his skin under her fingers, tasting his skin on her lips.
She erupted almost without warning, groaning with ecstasy, her cry caught by Roan’s kiss. He reached his climax behind her, coming at the end of one last powerful thrust and quick withdrawal, his seed warm on her abdomen. He was still panting as he slid his thumb across her cheek, and Prudence realized she had shed a tear of raw emotion in their coupling.
Roan pulled her into his chest and rolled with her onto his side. His breath was warm on her neck, his heartbeat steady and fast against her chest.
She didn’t want it to ever end.
Roan soothed her, his hand running over her hair, playing with the ribbon that had come unwound along with her coif. “Come to America,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.
“Pardon?”
“Marry me, Pru. Come to America.”
