The Scoundrel and the Debutante. Julia LondonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 assume we’ve broken a wheel,” Mr. Matheson said. The coach dipped to the right and swayed unsteadily. The driver cursed again, loudly enough that the round cheeks of the two sisters turned florid.
Mr. Matheson reached for the door and launched himself from the interior like a phoenix, startling them all. Prudence leaned forward and looked through the open door. The coach was leaning precariously to that side. She looked back at her fellow travelers and had the thought that if the two ladies tried to exit the coach at the same time, it might topple over. She fairly leaped from the coach, too, landing awkwardly against a coachman who had just appeared to help them down.
“What has happened?” Prudence asked.
“The wheel has broken, miss.”
Mr. Matheson, she noticed, was among the men who had gathered around the offending wheel. He’d squatted to study it, and Prudence wondered if he was acquainted with wheels in general, or merely curious.
There ensued quite a lot of discussion among the men as Mr. Matheson dipped down and reached deep under the coach with one arm, bracing himself against the vehicle with his other hand. Was it natural to be a bit titillated by a man’s immodest address of a mechanical issue? Certainly she had never seen a gentleman involve himself in that way.
When Mr. Matheson rose again, he wiped his hand on his trousers, leaving a smear of axle grease. That did not repulse Prudence. She found it strangely alluring.
“The axle is fine,” he announced.
There was more discussion among the men, their voices louder this time. It seemed to Prudence that they were all disagreeing with each other. At last the driver instructed the women and the old gentleman away from the coach while the men attempted to repair the wheel. Mr. Matheson was included in the group that was shooed away.
The team was unhitched, and some of the men began to stack whatever they could find beneath the coach to keep it level when the wheel was removed.
“My valise!” Prudence cried, and darted into the men to retrieve it, pulling it away before it could be used as a prop.
Then Mrs. Tricklebank and Mrs. Scales made seats on some rocks beneath the boughs of a tree, taking the old man and the boy under their wings and fussing around them. There was no seat left for Prudence, so she sat on a trunk.
They watched the men prop the carriage up with rocks and luggage and some apparatus from the coach itself, then remove the wheel. Mr. Matheson had returned to the problem and was in the thick of it, lending his considerable strength to the work. Prudence wondered if he had some sort of occupation that required knowledge of wheels. She couldn’t see why else he might be involved. It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough men to do the work. The only other slightly plausible explanation was that he somehow enjoyed such things.
The elderly gentleman grunted a bit and moved around in an effort to find some comfort, forcing the sisters to the edges of the rocks.
“He may be an American and a bit crude, but one cannot argue that he cuts a fine figure of a man,” Mrs. Scales said wistfully.
Prudence blinked. She looked at Mrs. Scales and realized that both sisters were admiring Mr. Matheson’s figure.
“Mrs. Scales, how vulgar!” Mrs. Tricklebank protested. But she did not look away from Mr. Matheson’s strong back.
The ladies cocked their heads to one side and silently considered his muscular figure. Frankly, his size and bearing made the Englishmen around him look a bit underfed.
He’d removed his coat, and Prudence could see the ripple of his muscles across his back, the outline of his powerful legs and hips straining against his trousers as he dipped down. Prudence could feel a bit of sparkly warmth snaking up her spine and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her spencer. “It’s rather too warm this afternoon, isn’t it?” she asked no one in particular. No one in particular responded.
As they continued to privately admire Mr. Matheson, another heated discussion broke out among the men. This time, a coachman was dispatched under the coach, crawling in so far that only his boots were visible. The other men hovered about, making sure the coach stayed put on its temporary perch. The coachman at last wiggled out from beneath the coach and in a low voice delivered a piece of news that was apparently so calamitous that it caused the men to burst into even louder argument all over again.
The driver ended it all with a shout of “Enough!”
At that point, Mr. Matheson whirled away from the gathered men, his hands on his waist. He took a very deep breath.
“What do you suppose is his occupation?” Mrs. Scales mused, clearly unruffled by the shouting and arguing. “He seems so...strong.”
“Quite strong,” said Mrs. Tricklebank. “Perhaps a smithy?”
“His clothes are too fine for a blacksmith,” Prudence offered.
Mrs. Tricklebank produced a fan, and with a sharp flick of her wrist, she began to fan herself. “Yes, I think you’re right. I think he comes from means.”
Mr. Matheson suddenly whirled back to face the men and roughly loosened his neckcloth. He began to speak sternly, rolling up his sleeves as he did, revealing forearms as thick as fence posts. He reached for the wheel and picked it up.
The sisters gasped in unison with Prudence; such a display of brawn was unexpected and stirring. She very much would have liked to see what he meant to do with that wheel, but the driver, clearly unhappy with Mr. Matheson’s efforts, wrested the wheel from his grip. Mr. Matheson reluctantly let it go, grabbed up his coat and stalked away from the men as the driver carefully leaned the wheel against the coach.
He kept stalking, striding past the ladies, his expression dark.
“What has happened?” Mrs. Tricklebank cried.
“What has happened?” Mr. Matheson repeated sharply, and whirled around to face the ladies and the old man. “I’ll tell you what has happened. That fool driver,” he said, pointing in the direction of the men, “insists that we wait for another coach instead of repairing the wheel and being on our way.” He jerked his shirtsleeves down as he cast another glare over his shoulder for the driver. “One would think a man who drives a team and a coach for his living might carry a tool or two with him.” He shoved into his coat, then dragged his hand through his hair. He muttered something under his breath and turned away from the coach, taking several steps toward an overgrown meadow, and then standing with his back to them, his legs braced apart, his arms akimbo.
For a moment, Prudence thought he meant to stomp away. She could imagine him striding across the fields all the way to the seashore, his jaw clenched, boarding the first ship he found and sailing to America.
“Why should that make him so desperately unhappy?” Mrs. Scales asked loudly.
“Because the good Lord knows when another coach might happen along!” he shouted over his shoulder.
The women exchanged a look. They all knew that two stagecoaches traveled this route every day, as did the Royal Post. A conveyance of some