from the wall of the coach and taking up what was left of the bench. There were only a few precious inches between them, not enough space for even a slender thing. Had Miss Cabot gone on top?
As if to answer his question, in the next moment, the door swung open and Miss Cabot’s bonneted head appeared. “Oh dear,” she said, peering into the interior. “There doesn’t seem to be room, does there?”
“Nonsense, of course there is,” said one of the women. “If the gentleman will kindly move aside, we’ll make space for you here. It will be a bit tight, but we’ll manage.”
Roan realized the woman beneath the tiny lace cap was referring to him. He looked at the coach wall against which he was smashed, and at the woman, who had taken up more than her share of the bench. “I beg your pardon, but I am as moved aside as I can possibly be.”
“Just a smidge,” the woman said, fluttering her fingers at him and making no effort to add any room to the bench from her end.
“Thank you,” Miss Cabot said, and hesitantly stepped inside, pushing past the knees of Roan and the old man. “Pardon me,” she said as she navigated her way into the middle of the coach, leaving a wisp of her perfumed scent as she did.
She balked when she saw the sliver of bench that was to be allotted to her.
“Isn’t much of a seat, is it?” one of the women asked. “But you’re a small thing. You’ll be quite all right.”
“Umm...” Miss Cabot smiled uncertainly at Roan and by some miracle of physical science, she managed to gracefully turn about in that small space without touching anyone except with the sweep of her hem. She settled delicately on the very edge of the bench, her slender back straight. Her knees, Roan noticed, touched the boy’s knees, and he could see the stain of acute awareness of that touch in the boy’s cheeks. Roan had been just like him at that age—as desperately fearful of females as he was desperate to be near them.
“You cannot remain perched like a bird for any length of time. You’ll exhaust yourself,” Roan said. “Please, do sit back.”
Miss Cabot turned her head slightly, and while all Roan could see beneath the brim of her bonnet was her chin and her wide, expressive mouth, he could sense her skepticism. She wiggled her bottom and slid back an inch or two. The woman shifted slightly. Miss Cabot wiggled her bottom again, and Roan could feel every inch of him tense as she continued to wiggle her bottom into the narrow spot between them. By the time she was done—every delicate bit of her pressed against every hard bit of him—he was, imprudently, thinking of creamy bare bottoms. Hers in particular. He imagined it to be smooth and heart-shaped. He imagined playfully biting the firm flesh—
Stop that. The last thing he needed was to be thinking salacious thoughts about a woman no older than his sister.
Roan clenched his jaw, adjusted his arm, and still he could not escape the heightened sensation of the slender lines of her body against the hard planes of his. He argued with himself that he was imagining her body indelicately next to his, not because he was a scoundrel and a rogue, but because he’d sailed across the Atlantic with a crew of men, had bounced about this part of England in coaches much like this and had not touched a woman in weeks.
Well. Perhaps he was a bit of a scoundrel. But it was true that he’d not had the pleasure of a woman’s lusty company since Miss Susannah Pratt had arrived in New York.
“Well!” Miss Cabot said gamely, squirming once more. She folded her hands onto her lap over the small package she carried. “If we’re plagued with bad roads, I might pop right out, mightn’t I?”
No one answered that; no doubt because they all feared it was true. The boy slid down in his seat, disappearing into his coat. The old man had yet to remove his two black pea eyes from Roan, his study so acute that Roan began to wonder if his private erotic thoughts were somehow apparent in his expression.
“On the whole, it looks to be a good day for travel, does it not?” Miss Cabot said cheerfully.
Roan sincerely hoped she was not the sort to find good fortune at every turn and announce it to one and all. He preferred his traveling companions to be as out of sorts and cross as he was when traveling in this manner.
“Quite nice,” one of the women said, and launched into something so quickly and with such verve that Roan could not begin to follow.
He took the opportunity to surreptitiously look at Miss Cabot. Her clothing was expensive. This, he knew, after having paid the clothing bills for his sister, Aurora; he’d become intimately acquainted with the cost of silk and muslin and brocade and fine wool. Miss Cabot had delicate hands, the sort that he guessed excelled at fine needlework. He could see a strand of hair on her shoulder—it was the color of wheat.
Was it disloyal to think that Miss Cabot was what he’d envisioned Susannah Pratt to be before he’d actually met her? Golden-haired and elegant, her countenance and appearance to spark the deepest male desires? But Susannah had turned out to be dark, wide and shapeless. Roan liked to think he was not so shallow as to form his opinion of the woman based on looks alone, but it didn’t help that Miss Pratt had nothing to say. When she’d arrived from Philadelphia and had come to his family’s home on the arm of Mr. Pratt, all Roan could think was that he couldn’t believe he’d actually agreed with Mr. Pratt and his own father that a marriage of the two families was something that ought to occur.
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,”