What a Wallflower Wants

by Maya Rodale

  They began to dance.

  She did not, as she feared, forget the steps. She’d spent hours and hours of her life practicing them so that when this moment came—waltzing in the arms of a handsome man—she could move in time to the music without counting to three and look into his smoldering gaze instead of at her feet.

  Two-eighths of her life. For this moment.

  Prue forced her breath to be even. In. Out. In. Out. She willed her heart to beat in a steady rhythm as she tried to reclaim power over her emotions and fears.

  Castleton’s gaze settled on her face. She peered up at him. This time she really looked at him, focusing on his mouth, which was firm, sensual, and smiling encouragingly. It wasn’t like The Beast’s tight and cruel smile. The memory of that made her stomach ache and her palms dampen.

  Everything about Castleton was different. His blue eyes had darkened in the candlelight. That friendly sparkle had been replaced with something darker. In spite of her efforts, her heart began to race. This was a mistake. She wasn’t ready for this. Her limbs tensed. Her lungs started to tighten and she couldn’t quite breathe.

  “Are you having fun yet?” Castleton asked her affectionately.

  Her gaze flew up to his. Ah, those eyes. Knowing. Dark.

  “It’d be rude to say no, wouldn’t it?” he murmured. “So you won’t say anything. How about now?”

  “I can’t explain what this is making me feel,” she said, her voice breathless. But, for two-eighths of life, she wanted to make it through one dance.

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  “I hardly know you,” she said. She couldn’t even explain it to her best friends, because she hadn’t even told them what had happened to traumatize her.

  “I was born and raised at Castlemore Court in Yorkshire. I’ve read over three hundred books. My sister’s name is Martha. I spend an inordinate amount of time traveling around the countryside, playing cards and wagering. I’m on a winning streak. And I hate turnips.”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding and smiled faintly.

  “Everyone hates turnips,” she said.

  “See, we have something in common,” Castleton murmured with a smile that made her feel warm on the inside.

  “What about you, Miss Merryweather?”

  What could she tell him? That she was so nervous right now, she might be sick? That she wanted to lose herself in the pleasure of his touch and just enjoy this moment of being a young woman dancing in the arms of a handsome man, but she couldn’t because of The Beast? That she’d done everything she could to make sure men never looked at her, yet here he was gazing down at her with those ridiculously lovely blue eyes of his? God, he positively sparkled when he looked at her.

  “I also hate turnips. I look terrible in yellow. My best friends are Emma and Olivia, and they just got married. I haven’t danced since my first season.”

  “What season are you on now?”

  “My fourth.”

  “You’re dancing now. And with the most handsome man in the room, too.”

  That made her laugh aloud and smile broadly. In spite of everything, she couldn’t fight the upturn of her lips and the crinkling around the corner of her eyes. Lady Dare always warned about wrinkles around the eyes. She’d just never warned Prue about men.

  “You haven’t much competition,” Prudence couldn’t help but point out.

  “Shhh. Don’t let Buckley hear you,” Castleton replied.

  “Or Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Miss Merryweather . . .” His voice was soft and low and a question. Prue looked up at him. He took that as a yes and pulled her just a bit closer.

  She tried to breathe. She closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the memories of the last time a man had held her close during a waltz—and what had come after. Instead of Castleton’s touch, she felt the pressure of The Beast’s hand on hers and how firmly he had pressed her against him. The scent of stale cigar smoke and wine assaulted her senses—it wasn’t Castleton but her memory coming on strong.

  Other things she wished she could tell him: how she wanted to enjoy this but could not.

  What she never wanted him to know: why this was torture for her.

  The instant he knew would be the instant that his eyes stopped sparkling when he looked at her. The feeling was too new, too fragile, too wonderful for her to lose already. The instant he knew would be the instant he turned away because she was damaged goods. Or worse, the instant he knew would be the instant he thought he could have her without tenderness or promises.

  Breathing. It was difficult at the moment.

  Prudence had always wondered what it would be like to have a man look at her as Castleton did now—with affection and perhaps lust, with kindness and curiosity. With all sorts of good things. Now she knew.

  But The Beast was still present, his memory hovering over her shoulder, ruining everything by reminding her of the last time she had waltzed with a man. . . .

  The Beast’s hands had been firm on the small of her back. He had gazed down at her. She’d thought it had been with adoration—what a fool she’d been! She’d been just out of the schoolroom and utterly ignorant in the ways of rogues disguised as gentlemen. She hadn’t known it had been the smile of a lion before devouring a weak baby gazelle.

  It had been like this. A man, holding her. A man, looking down at her. A man, clutching her close.

  Her vision darkened at the periphery. In her mind, Castleton’s features seemed to merge with The Beast’s. She remembered the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she had felt that night, as if on some level she had known that something awful was about to happen. She felt it now.

  “Let me go,” she rasped. Her lungs seemed to clench in her chest.

  “Miss Merryweather—”

  “I have to go. You need to let me go. I must go.” It was such a struggle to get the words from her heart to her tongue and then to say them aloud.

  What had she been thinking? She was ruined, deep down in her soul and in her head. One waltz wasn’t going to cure her or reclaim two-eighths of her life. She was done. Done. Forever.

  She ran, as she should have done those years ago. She dashed up the stairs, tears stinging at her eyes. She threw open the door to her bedchamber, slammed it shut, and locked it.

  Back against the door, she slid down to sit on the floor and pulled her knees against her chest.

  Chapter 8

  London, 1820

  Four years earlier

  Prudence’s first season

  WITH HER BACK against the wall where that hurtful thing had just happened, Prue finally let her knees give out. She slid down to sit on the floor, knees up against her chest.

  Sobs were stuck in her throat. What had just happened? Snatches of it flashed across her brain, hurting her anew. She thought she might be sick. Then she felt the stickiness between her legs and remembered and then she was sick, right on the floor in Lord and Lady Blackburn’s corridor.

  Faintly, she heard the sounds of the orchestra and the voices of hundreds of the haute ton chattering and laughing as if Prudence’s innocence hadn’t just been stolen from her. She did her best to stitch together the events of the evening, trying to understand how this bad thing had happened. To her.

  How could this have happened to her?

  Ladies did not refuse invitations to dance, and Prudence had been raised to be a proper lady. When Lord Dudley had invited her to waltz, she’d had no choice but to accept. It was the height of bad manners to refuse a man. People would talk and say cruel things about her if she did (who does that Miss Payton think she is). Dudley would be angry and embarrassed, and might spread vicious rumors about her, which would devastate her marital prospects. Rumors alone could wreck a girl’s reputation. Then no one would ask her to dance and she would become a dried-up old spinster, which, up until an hour ago, was the worst fate she could imagine.

  Besides, it was a few weeks into their first season and it was swiftly becoming apparen
t that she, Emma, and Olivia would not be taking the ton by storm as planned. Instead, they languished with the other wallflowers. The romances they had hoped for did not materialize. She was in no position to refuse an invitation to dance.

  She tried to tell herself that Lord Dudley wasn’t the worst. He wasn’t geriatric or decrepit or odious. He had all of his teeth. In fact, some considered him handsome. He was young, his blond hair was slicked back with pomade, and his eyes were a clear, icy blue. There was just something about him—something hard around the edges, even when he smiled. He made her stomach hurt.

  Nevertheless, Prudence accepted.

  Down on the floor, after, Prudence closed her eyes and moaned. God, she felt dirty. His hands had been on her in places she’d never even touched herself. His mouth. She felt another wave of nausea remembering the taste of him. He’d been inside of her.

  This Beast had been inside of her.

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to be clean. But shock had stricken her numb, and she couldn’t quite move from the floor.

  Did she deserve this? Was it her fault? She had agreed to dance with him—nothing else. Or had she misunderstood things? She could hardly make sense of it all.

  The pressure of his hand on her back—she remembered that. He grasped her hand, hard. Trapped, she had felt trapped. But it was just a waltz, and ladies were supposed to smile and dance with whoever asked, and it would be over in a minute or so. She counted the seconds.

  She had been raised to be A Lady. She’d had a governess, the chaperonage of her guardian and aunt, and four years at Lady Penelope’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Fine Families. Her entire education had been devoted to making herself agreeable to gentlemen.

  His arm linked with hers when it was over. “I shall walk you back to your friends,” he said, and the relief she felt was palpable—until he started leading her away from her friends. She felt her heart thumping in her throat. Panic.

  “They’re on the opposite side of the ballroom,” Prudence said, head turning back to look longingly at the wallflower corner.

  “We’re going this way first,” he said firmly. His grasp on her tightened. None of the lords and ladies they passed seemed to notice the tears stinging in her eyes or the way she tried to drop her weight in the manner toddlers did when they didn’t wish to be picked up. Prue’s desperate, pleading gaze locked with that of her tormenter from school; Lady Katherine turned away.

  Dudley just laughed and forced her along, her feet stumbling around her skirts.

  Why hadn’t she just screamed? Another sob lodged in her throat. God, she was so ashamed. Another wave of bile surged up her throat. She was so stupid. She ought to have screamed.

  Young ladies don’t cause scenes.

  She’d been raised to be a lady.

  What a cruel twist that in an effort to be what was expected of her, she found herself awash in shame, a spoilt, pitiful creature, unfit for polite company.

  Another sharp stab of a memory pierced her again.

  Dudley had pushed her up against a wall in the corridor—a dark one, far from the public rooms and bustle of servants. She had struggled and pleaded every step of the way. He just pinned her against the wall with the weight of his hips pressed into hers. His hands snaked around her wrists and gripped them tight, pinning them behind her back. With his hips pressing hard against hers, it was impossible for her to escape. She thought she had been scared a moment ago. That was nothing.

  What would he do to her? She feared the worst.

  Squirming and trying to get away only made him laugh softly.

  “When you move like that, it makes me harder,” he whispered in her ear. She felt his hot breath on her neck and she retched. “Can you feel it?”

  She did feel it, hard, thrusting against her belly. She felt his body smothering hers. She didn’t have the physical strength to push him away, and the realization that he could overpower her was soul crushing. She didn’t want this, but what could she do to stop it?

  “Let me go,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”

  Please God, let me go. She prayed. She pleaded.

  “Not quite yet,” he murmured. And when she tried to scream, he said, “Just a little kiss first.”

  His mouth closed over hers, cutting off the scream she finally decided to allow. She tasted the wine he had been drinking. She felt his slug of a tongue in and out, plumbing the depths of her mouth. It made her heave. She turned her head. One small act of rebellion.

  “Don’t be like that, Prude Prudence,” he said mockingly. Later, she would be glad of the name, for it seemed to scare off other men. In the moment, she hated every word he uttered.

  She kept her head turned. Lips shut tight. His mouth found hers anyway. His tongue forced its way inside her mouth.

  This was not how she imagined her first kiss. Another little devastation.

  “Kiss me back,” he growled.

  She bit his tongue. Metallic taste.

  “Bitch,” he swore, his eyes hard and inches from hers. She tried to break away. He shifted, pinning her wrists with one large hand, and lifting her skirts with the other.

  This couldn’t be happening. It became too much for her to bear. Vaguely she was aware of his fingers, rubbing against her legs where no one had ever touched her. That couldn’t be a real sensation. Her knees buckled. His grip on her wrists tightened. There would be bruises in the morning—bruises which no one would ever see because Ladies wore long sleeves and gloves to preserve their modesty. Even if their modesty was ripped away from them.

  Something salty hit her tongue, mixing with the metallic taste of blood. Tears.

  “No,” she moaned. “Please no,” she moaned again when she felt him pressing hard against her entrance.

  Prudence struggled against him. It only made him angrier, which made him more forceful. Fear took over, rendering her mute. She didn’t know what this was. She didn’t know what was happening. All she knew was that ladies took care not to show their ankles. And here she was, with her skirts hitched up to her waist in a corridor where anyone might happen upon them.

  God, why didn’t someone happen upon them and put a stop to this?

  Ladies didn’t allow gentlemen liberties, but this one was taking and taking and taking and taking.

  He forced himself inside her. It hurt, God, it hurt. The pain was unreal. She felt it there. She felt it in her wrists, where he held her fiercely. She felt it in her lungs, which burned with the scent of him, like stale smoke. She felt it in her soul.

  This could not be happening. Someone would surely come and put a stop to this. Someone would come and save her. Wouldn’t they?

  Wouldn’t someone come?

  Please?

  Prudence felt herself go away . . . outside herself. . . . It wasn’t enough.

  With every thrust, she died a little inside. There were so many thrusts over and over and over and over and over. Finally, it was over.

  He spent himself inside her. Released her wrists. Her skirts fell down, covering her. He stepped back and buttoned his breeches.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Or I’ll say that you asked for it.”

  As if she would ever breathe a word of this.

  Then he sauntered off as if her life hadn’t suddenly ended. Her knees gave way. She sank to the floor.

  She was no longer a lady. She was no longer a girl.

  She was no longer. She wanted to scrub her skin with scalding water and soap until it was gone. She wanted to disappear—or what was left of her, anyway.

  Prudence understood that her virginity had been taken from her. She knew that without her virginity, a woman was nothing. Nothing. She spit on the floor, trying to get the taste of him out of her mouth. No man would ever marry her—not that she ever wanted a man to touch her again so long as she lived. If anyone ever found out about this, she would be shamed and ruined. The ton would label her bad and damaged and shut her out. And as they should—she was bad and damaged no
w.

  She would never marry.

  Everything in her life had been about getting married. What was left?

  The Beast hadn’t just taken her innocence; he had stolen her future.

  Somehow she got through the rest of the night, and the rest of the season, and all the seasons that followed. She kept her gaze down, she took care never to be alone, and she found the wallflower patch at every ball and stayed there. She stuck with her two best friends and pretended that awful thing had never happened. No one ever asked her to dance, and she never once complained about it. All she did was get by, get through the day. Occasionally panic would seize her—in corridors, when she caught a glimpse of The Beast, or when she thought about what would happen to her when everyone else married and she still couldn’t even bear a man’s touch upon her hand.

  Somehow, she ended up here, on the floor of her room at the Coach & Horses Inn with a past she wanted to forget and no future to speak of.

  Chapter 9

  Somewhere in Wiltshire, 1824

  Coach & Horses Inn

  After midnight

  THE HOUR HAD grown late and the music and dancing had long since ceased when two more guests stumbled up the stairs to the inn and pushed open the door.

  “God, that rain!” Lord Fitz-Herbert exclaimed, trying to dry his hair and brush the water off his jacket. They’d gotten soaked just from the mad dash from their carriage to the parlor. Their valets had been sent around to the stables to see to the horses.

  “How bloody inconvenient that the road to London should be practically washed away,” his companion grumbled. In an effort to reach Pangbourne for the boxing match in time, they had planned to travel through the night, only to find the roads a mess and a bridge washed away. They’d turned back and sought refuge here.

  “I told you we should ford the river.”

  “Yes, if we wanted to drown.”

  “Like we’re not practically drowned now.”