by Maya Rodale
Not when she was alone. In the middle of Wiltshire. In the dead of the night.
“Perhaps I shall retire to a cottage by the sea. Or perhaps I shall spend the rest of my days with Lady Dare.”
The glamorous Lady Dare had raised Prudence from the time she’d been in the cradle, a poor little orphan after her mother and father had perished from an outbreak of consumption. Prudence had been too young to have any memories of them, and instead she saw her aunt and her governess as her family. Lady Dare was currently in Bath with her friend Lady Palmerston, operating under the impression that Prudence was on her way back to London.
Which she was. Presumably. In a manner of speaking.
Finally the forest ended, giving way to a road. She followed it, hoping it would lead her to a small village where she might take a room, have a bath, and sort out what she might do for the rest of her life.
“Hint. Taken. No marriage for Prudence,” she muttered. Marriage was all a girl was raised to do, so Prue was at a bit of a loss over how to proceed with her remaining days.
The obvious recourse was to return to London and pretend none of this had ever happened. She was very good at that. As far as anyone knew, she was Miss Payton, shy, retiring, wallflower. No one—not even Emma and Olivia—knew the dark, ugly truth about her.
Given that her last-ditch effort at procuring a husband had failed so spectacularly, there was no point in attending Lady Penelope’s Ball; Prudence did not have the gumption to go alone, and it was inconceivable she’d find a husband now, which meant there was no point in hurrying back to town.
The sun began to rise. She kept walking.
THE SUN ROSE higher, beating her down with hot rays. She trudged along the dusty dirt road for hours and miles. Fields lined either side, making Prue wish for the shade of the forest, even with its dark, terrifying shadows.
Hours passed, with the sun climbing higher and higher in the sky.
Her reddish-brown hair had long ago worked its way out of the knot she’d styled it in and now was plastered to the back of her neck. Beads of sweat gathered between her breasts. The fabric of her dress clung to her, which was deuced uncomfortable in this heat. Her whalebone corset dug into her skin.
Prue switched the bag from one hand to the other. Both hurt. She debated leaving it on the side of the road, but she had faith that eventually she would reach shelter and would want the clean dress, hairbrush, and money contained within. So she held on until her hands were raw under her gloves.
Her pale skin was probably a furious shade of red by now. Her freckles had probably darkened considerably. When she’d still been a student at Lady Penelope’s, she had worried about her freckles, or forgetting the steps to the quadrille whilst dancing with a handsome young man, or other ridiculous things that had never been actual problems.
She carried on, walking another mile or two or twenty. It felt like twenty. The thick white clouds had begun to darken considerably. A rumble of thunder disturbed the birdsong. A storm. Perfect. Though the rain might be cooling, she didn’t fancy walking when this dirt road turned to mud.
And then, oh happiness, the sweetest sound in the world reached her ears: the sound of a carriage approaching. The clip of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels were unmistakable.
“Please let this be a lady and her maid,” Prudence prayed, setting down her valise. “Or a nice family. Or an old dowager. ”
Prue turned to see if her prayers had been answered. An exceedingly fine—and fast—carriage rolled toward her, a cloud of dust behind it and two pure white stallions up front. Unfortunately, the carriage was driven by a man.
As the carriage came closer, she saw that he was a large man. A young man.
Then the carriage rolled to a gentle stop beside her.
She noticed his boots first: large, shiny black Hessians that reached his knees. His valet must have spent hours polishing them to such a high shine. Her gaze then traveled up, inevitably, to muscular thighs clad in very fitted kerseymere breeches. His waistcoat was a pale blue silk, the color of the sky approximately three hours earlier, before the sun had reached its peak in the sky.
His jacket was green, like the pine needles in the forest that had softened her steps as she’d made her escape. Of course his chest and shoulders were broad and, in her mind, imposing.
And when she lifted her gaze higher still, to his face?
To hell with you, God.
This man’s face, with its blue eyes and easy smile, made her think of Once upon a time. Once upon a time, when she still believed in heroes that saved the day. Once upon a time, when she still believed that somewhere, out there, was a man who would love her. Once upon a time, when a young girl’s dreams came true and happily ever after was just within reach. That was a long time ago. These days, Prudence knew better. She knew that wolves wore rogues’ clothing and had a taste for young ladies.
“Good afternoon,” he said with a tip of his hat and a smile that revealed a slight dimple in his left cheek. He was entirely handsome, from his slightly unruly brown hair down to the tips of his shiny black boots. And he was smiling at her in a way that made her feel like fireworks inside: hot, shimmering, sparkling explosions that left her breathless and entranced.
Prudence managed a tight smile, wanting to be polite but not encouraging.
She was quite aware of the fact that they were alone on a desolate country road.
“Would you care for a ride, miss? I’d be happy to oblige,” he offered.
Of course she wanted a ride somewhere. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to sit on the upholstered carriage bench, under the shade of the carriage top. She wanted to set down her bag and sigh with relief. She wanted to sit beside this impossibly handsome man and gaze up at his blue eyes and think about falling in love rather than being accosted and left for dead, or worse.
She knew about worse.
So even though this handsome man smiled at her kindly and had magically appeared during her hour of need to offer her a much-desired ride, Prudence said no.
To be more precise, she said, “No, thank you.”
This was punctuated by another rumble of thunder.
The man, drat him, lifted one brow curiously and looked impossibly handsome whilst doing so.
“It’s a hot day to be out walking,” he remarked.
“I am well aware of that,” she replied dryly, and he laughed. To her vast irritation, it was a warm, lovely sound that she might have enjoyed under other circumstances, or in another lifetime, or if she’d been another person entirely.
“It’s also likely to rain,” he said, gesturing toward the thick, dark clouds. There was another rumble of thunder so perfectly timed that she wondered if he had a way of commanding the weather.
“How refreshing.” She glanced down the road. A plume of smoke was rising up, far off in the distance. Was that a town just ahead? Could she walk there before the rain started? Maybe. If this man would leave her to carry on.
“I beg your pardon, I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Castleton,” he said with the lordly authority that Prudence recognized from all the haughty peers she knew in London—and strenuously avoided.
She ought to introduce herself. Which name should she give him? Prude Prudence? Or perhaps London’s Least Likely to Be Caught in a Compromising Position? Not being a complete ninny, she wasn’t about to give her real name to a strange man encountered on the side of the road.
“I’m Miss Merryweather.”
“Miss Merryweather, I’d be more than happy to drive you into town. It’s just a mile or so ahead.”
Oh, thank God.
“I’d prefer to walk, thank you,” she told him. To prove her point, she started plodding toward town. Her feet throbbed. Her back ached. In her gloves, her hands were positively raw from carrying her bag. But there was no way she was going to put herself at the mercy of a man she didn’t know.
“Would you like company?” he offered, oblivious to her lack of interes
t.
Correction: she was interested. But she had no intention of indulging in her interest and what he offered. Her life had made it plain that men were brutes not to be trusted, and God had made it abundantly clear that she was not to have love or marriage. There was no point in her furthering her acquaintance with this man. Nothing good could come of it.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Are you quite certain you don’t wish for a ride, Miss Merryweather? I would feel like the worst sort of gentleman if I left you on your own by the side of a desolate country road with a rainstorm imminent. I’d be much obliged if you let me drive you into town.”
“And I’d be much obliged if you left me to proceed in peace.” She couldn’t stand the temptation much longer, and she could. Not. Get. In. That. Carriage.
Not for the first time did she curse The Beast.
If it hadn’t been for him, she could have climbed into that carriage and let herself fall in love. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d probably have been happily married to a wonderful man with a baby in the nursery and another on the way. She wouldn’t have been here—jilted and on the road with nowhere to go, refusing the offer of a handsome man.
She carried on, feeling his eyes on her. In London, she had made every effort to ensure men never looked twice at her. So it was deuced strange to have captured the attention of one here, now, when she was looking her worst and completely hopeless.
“As you wish, Miss Merryweather. Enjoy your walk. Good day,” Castleton said with another tip of his hat and flash of his smile. He flicked the reins, the stallions picked up a trot, and Prudence was left behind in the dust.
Then, like all the others, he was gone.
Chapter 3
The Coach & Horses Inn
Later that afternoon
JOHN ROARK, FORMALLY known as Jonathan James William Roark Hathaway, Viscount Castleton, was on a winning streak of epic proportions. It had begun a few months earlier during a storm like this, in a place like this. Just when he’d hit the bitter end, his luck had turned and rocketed skyward, providing him with riches he’d never expected and opportunities he’d only dreamt of. He’d seized each and every opportunity, like a drowning man gasped for a breath of air.
But the thing with winning streaks was that they inevitably came to an end. What goes up, must come down. Eventually the other shoe would drop—a fact that was never far from his mind.
John accepted the inevitable—but not yet. He still had plans.
In the meantime, he waited by the window in the parlor of the Coach & Horses Inn, the first lodgings he’d found in whatever the hell town this was. Brandy in hand, he kept watch for Miss Merryweather, who did not seem to be on a lucky winning streak. Ladies in agreeable circumstances did not walk along desolate country roads in inclement weather without a chaperone.
As soon as he’d seen her, he’d been curious as to the whys and hows of her situation. She was too pretty and presumably too well born to be out there on her own, carrying her own bag. He’d taken one look in her brown eyes and seen trouble. He suspected she was on the run. He suspected that she was the kind of trouble he never could resist: a woman in need of protection, a woman he could care for, a woman he could give his heart to. The kind of trouble that was the downfall of many men.
John didn’t want to push his luck. Not now, not when he was so close to success and painfully aware of the ticking of the clock indicating that time was running out.
His attention was captured once again by Miss Merryweather as she came into view: a drenched spot of girl on the horizon, trudging along with her valise in her arms.
He wanted to dash out into the summer rain, sweep her into his arms, and carry her back to the shelter of the inn. He never could resist a damsel in distress, his mother had always said. Most of the time the damsels didn’t complain. Most of the damsels he encountered weren’t as stubborn, determined, and captivating as Miss Merryweather.
It was unfortunate she had refused his offer of a ride, though he conceded that it was smart of her to refuse to put herself at the mercy of a strange man with whom she was not acquainted. But still, he would sooner cut off his arm than hurt a woman. And the longing had been so plain in her face. But what was he to do—pick her up, plunk her in the carriage, and abscond with her?
A gentleman honors a lady’s wishes, even if they are mad. They being either the lady, her wishes, or both.
So he’d reluctantly left her on the side of the road.
John turned to have a word with the innkeeper, a small, older gentleman with a tuft of white hair and a deeply wrinkled face.
“Mr. Rutherford, a lady will be here shortly. Would you prepare a room with a hot bath to be ready upon her arrival?”
John reckoned Miss Merryweather would want both the minute she stepped inside.
“And the expense of a room and bath for a lady who may or may not appear, my lord?”
Oh, she would be here. She was determined, there was no mistaking that.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said quietly. While he needed to save for what awaited him in London, it was inconceivable that he wouldn’t spend a little extra for a girl who was obviously having a rough time of it.
Besides, he’d won big at yesterday’s horse race by betting on the filly everyone else had dismissed. Her bloodlines had been questionable, but he’d taken one look in her eyes and seen the toss of her head and laid down a few quid. When she’d crossed the finish line with a trail of weary colts eating her dust, John had taken one look at the darkened, angry expressions of all the gents that had gambled foolishly and lost big. He’d gotten the hell out.
Lord Dudley and Lord Fitz-Herbert, in particular, had looked ready to draw blood. It was a frequent occurrence. The winning. The angry lords. The quick, hasty escapes. Wondering if this was the moment his luck ran out.
Soon enough he’d be in London for the gamble of a lifetime. If he succeeded in this mad scheme, he’d be set for life. No more traveling from card game to card game, wondering if each hand dealt to him was the one that marked the end of his winning streak. He’d have enough to bring his mother and sister to town, where they could live in the fine style they deserved.
To that, he drank. The brandy warmed him up on the inside, but even that couldn’t chase away his memories of a particular cold, wet night like this one . . . being soaked through to the skin, a chill settling into one’s bones, hope getting washed away with the rain.
John turned back to the window. Miss Merryweather was closer now, slogging along the High Street with a furious, yet heartbroken, expression on her face. She crossed the road, which was up to her ankles in mud. She stomped wearily up the steps. The door burst open, letting in a sopping wet moppet of a girl, her rain-soaked valise, and a gust of wind and rain.
Her expression was one of both relief and triumph.
John felt his lips quirking into a smile. She was quite a sight—a wet, bedraggled lady, dropping a valise at her feet with a thud—and she stole his attention as well as that of the tradesman, his wife, and their three small children, who occupied a table in the main parlor. The barmaid, Annie, looked up from wiping down tables. The old drunk kept his face firmly planted on the long oak bar, where it had been since John’s arrival earlier today.
The lot of them were curious about this woman traveling alone in adverse conditions.
The innkeeper bustled over.
“Your room and a bath are waiting, miss,” Rutherford said.
She quirked her head in disbelief, as if she didn’t have this kind of luck. As if she expected the inn to be full, including the stables and the manger, too. And then, as if she felt his presence, she turned and saw him.
You her gaze seemed to say accusatorily.
There was war blazing in her brown eyes. It was a battle between her desire for the comforts of a bath and a private room against her independent nature. Aye, he could already tell she had no wish to be indebted to him. But God, did she want that
bath and the room.
“I simply alerted the innkeeper to your imminent arrival,” he explained. She nodded and followed the innkeeper up the stairs to her room.
He turned back to the window, sipped his drink, and considered the odds that Miss Merryweather was another prize of his winning streak—or would this mysterious and captivating woman be his downfall?
The moment when a man starts to believe that his good fortune will go on forever is the moment the winning streak comes to an end. This, then, was his moment when everything crashed and burned.
John had donned his suit of evening clothes—a finely tailored coat, a silk waistcoat, a freshly laundered and pressed shirt and cravat, and all the other items befitting a gentleman perfectly turned out for a ball.
He whistled as he drove the carriage through London. That was the part that slayed him—he was whistling on his way to the woman he loved. He was happy.
John had, in spite of all his good luck, still dared to hope that his winning streak wouldn’t come to an end just yet.
All he needed was one more night. . . .
That was the last thought he had before his luck ran out and his winning streak crashed and burned.
In the midst of everything falling apart, John looked up to a familiar face smirking. John saw all the moments leading up to this one, all the plans he had unwittingly put in motion. In an instant, it was clear that in saving her he had ruined himself.
They could stop him, maybe. They could try, certainly. But tonight, he was on a mission. He had made a promise to the woman he loved. John kept his promises.
Nothing, nothing would stop him from making the journey from here to her.
Chapter 4
The following day
Seven days before Lady Penelope’s Ball
PRUDENCE STOOD BEFORE the window in the parlor of the inn, watching the rain fall steadily, as if it were on a mission and nothing, nothing would stop it from making the journey from cloud to earth in a direct and efficient fashion. Instead of dwelling on all of her misfortunes, or considering where she might go from here (wherever here was—she had no idea), she thought of happier times, a few years earlier, before she knew that bad things happened to good girls and that life didn’t go according to plan.