What a Wallflower Wants

by Maya Rodale

  Fitz-Herbert snorted. “Just because you’re so desperate to get to London on your daddy’s orders doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

  Fitz’s friend gave him a withering stare in the dim light.

  “Do shut up, Fitz,” Dudley snapped. His father controlled the purse strings and used them to manipulate his son like he was a bloody puppet. Not fancying himself penniless, Dudley tended to obey orders. But he didn’t like it. Especially when it meant he was wet. “Might I remind you that on our way to London is the boxing match. And I know you want to see that as much as I do.”

  “Hello!” Fitz hollered out into the recesses of the darkened inn. “Is anybody home?”

  “The service here is terrible,” Dudley complained. “We’ve been standing here for ten minutes already.”

  It might have only been five. But it felt like ten, especially when they were soaking wet. And hungry. And, worst of all, sober. He needed a servant, immediately.

  That it was the middle of the night and people were sleeping did not factor into his consideration. That only madmen and fools ventured out into rainstorms like this—and thus the innkeeper was likely not expecting anyone—was irrelevant. He was the heir to the Marquis of Scarbrough, one of the most powerful men in England; the world existed to please him.

  Dudley was cross because his current options were to tolerate this slow service or venture out into the rain again. Really, he had no option at all.

  That made him feel powerless.

  There was no feeling he hated more than being powerless.

  And wet, tired, and hungry.

  Finally the glow of a taper appeared, illuminating a little old man in a cotton nightshirt and cap descending the stairs at the speed of an old donkey on his last legs.

  “We’ll need two rooms,” Fitz-Herbert said before the man had placed a bare foot on the parlor floor. “And space for our valets, who are seeing to the horses.”

  “And a hot bath,” Dudley added with a shiver. He felt better just issuing the order, knowing his wish would be fulfilled.

  “Make that two,” Fitz-Herbert said. And then, turning to Dudley, he asked, “Are you hungry? I’m a bit peckish.”

  “Let’s have some food as well,” Dudley told the innkeeper, who looked a bit peevish. He might have been woken in the middle of the night, but at least he wasn’t wet. Besides, he should be honored to have two well-known lords under his roof, especially ones with the blunt to make it worth his while to attend to their every whim.

  “And wine,” Fitz-Herbert added.

  “God yes, wine,” Dudley said enthusiastically, rubbing his palms together. “A good red would be grand on a night like this.”

  The innkeeper didn’t say anything; he just sighed and reached for his coat and boots. As if he weren’t glad for the paying customers.

  Dudley ignored him and crossed the room to stand before the dwindling embers of the fire.

  “It feels so good to be warm again,” Fitz-Herbert said. The innkeeper gave them a hard, cold look over his shoulder before stepping out into the cold, rainy night and slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 10

  Early the next morning

  Four days before Lady Penelope’s Ball

  PRUDENCE SAT AT a table in the parlor and wrapped her hands around the hot mug of tea, savoring the warmth. The chill from the rain was starting to sink into her bones. Or perhaps that cold, heavy feeling was just the memories she couldn’t seem to shake.

  What a fool she had made of herself last night. It was ridiculous of her to think she was fine. As if the memories would fade until eventually enough time passed for them to disappear. Perhaps that was possible. But last night proved that The Beast still had her firmly in his grasp.

  Prue sipped the tea and tried to focus on the lovely moments instead, as if they could crowd out the bad memories if she only accumulated enough of them. One of the loveliest moments had come when Castleton had gazed at her with the sort of adoration she had long dreamt of. She started to warm up from the inside.

  Prudence took another sip of her tea and recalled how her hand had felt in his and the warmth of his touch. Just the memory chased the chill away. Or it might have been the tea.

  Perhaps one day she would be able to enjoy such looks and affection. She ought to be considering more pressing matters, like what had happened to Cecil. Had he survived? She was certain he must have done; the alternative was too horrid to contemplate. If he lived, were they still betrothed?

  And if so, did she still wish to marry him, especially if this rain prevented her from returning to London before Lady Penelope’s Ball? Her heart said no, which begged the question: had she given up on love entirely, or had she only just started to believe?

  Teapot in hand, Annie slowly approached the table where Prudence sat.

  “Would you care for more tea?”

  “It looks like you need this tea more than I do,” Prudence remarked. Annie didn’t seem quite as cheerful as usual. Her eyes were heavy lidded and her hair a bit disheveled.

  “I just might,” she replied with a sigh. “Two gents arrived late last night. Very late.”

  “So I did hear a commotion,” Prudence said. “I thought I had dreamt it.”

  “I wish I had,” Annie said darkly. “They wanted hot baths, something to eat, and wine in the middle of the night! But that’s London gentlemen for you.”

  Prudence concentrated on remaining very still. What an intrusion! She had come to think of this inn as a refuge, and this time away from town life as a respite she had very badly needed. But now there were London gentlemen here. It left a bad taste in her mouth. She would have to avoid them—a tricky endeavor, given the confines of the inn—for if it was discovered that she was here alone, they would certainly take the news back to town with them. The ton would assume the worst, and Prudence didn’t exactly have the reputation strong enough to weather such tarnishing gossip.

  Poor Annie yawned.

  “You must have been up late,” Prue said.

  “Slept in, too. Now I’m behind on the baking for the day,” Annie sighed. “But what am I complaining to you for? It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Oh no, miss.”

  “Please? I am beginning to go mad just sitting around doing nothing,” Prudence said. It was the truth. Furthermore, if she was to avoid the London gentlemen, there was no better place to hide than the kitchens.

  “What about flirting with Lord Castleton?” Annie asked with a grin.

  Prue was so surprised by the notion that it took her a moment before she replied, “We’re not flirting.”

  “He’s sweet on you, Miss Merryweather,” Annie said. “Anyone can see it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Prue muttered, smiling down into her mug of tea.

  “Is it? You’re a lovely and kind young lady.”

  “I am now even more inclined to help you, Annie. What needs to be done?”

  “Can you bake bread?” Annie asked with a skeptical lift of her brow.

  “I haven’t before,” Prue admitted. “But how hard can it be?”

  AN HOUR LATER, Prudence found that baking bread wasn’t complicated, but it was challenging. After Annie’s instruction, she found herself kneading a large ball of dough. While Annie kept up a steady stream of chatter about Rutherford (her uncle), the village (the dullest place imaginable), Buckley (the beloved town drunk), and all the town gossip (Mrs. Walpole was having an affair with the magistrate, who had been bribed by the local gentry’s son to turn a blind eye to his curricle racing), Prue pushed and pulled on the dough, giving it all of her strength, but it was tough and unmalleable in her hands. This kneading business was tougher than she’d assumed—but then again, what would she know about baking? Kitchens were foreign lands to her.

  “Is it done yet?” Prudence asked. In other words, how much longer? Her arms were starting to ache. However, she refused to complain.

  “A bi
t longer, Miss Merryweather. Suddenly, it’ll just transform right under your hands. You’ll just know when it’s ready.”

  Annie kept chattering while she prepared the meals for the day. Prudence kept fighting with the dough. And then Castleton interrupted them.

  He stood in the doorway to the kitchen. From the relative safety of the far side of the room, the first thing Prudence noticed was his shirt. After being soaked in the rain, the white linen was transparent. It clung to the broad planes of his chest. The other day she had been too overwhelmed to pay much attention.

  This morning, she really noticed. Castleton had the sort of chest that was just pure manliness, strength, and power. Prue was curious how it would feel under her palms. Then she sighed, knowing she would probably have to live with the mystery. After all, she had panicked at just the touch of his hand.

  “Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured, leaning against the door frame and gazing at the two women in the kitchen. Prue glanced at Annie and saw a blush stealing across her cheeks.

  “Good morning, Lord Castleton,” Annie replied cheerily. “How are the horses?”

  “There are more in the stables this morning than when I went to sleep last night.”

  “Two gentlemen arrived after midnight,” Annie explained.

  “That explains the extra horses,” Castleton said. “And the noise that woke me.”

  “After they stayed up drinking until long past midnight, I reckon they’ll be asleep for most of the day,” Annie said. “At least, one hopes.”

  “In the meantime, I see you have pressed Miss Merryweather into service.”

  “I begged for her to give me something to do,” Prue answered.

  “Are you bored with staring out the window at the rain, Miss Merryweather?”

  “This might surprise you, but yes,” she replied, smiling.

  “What would you do if you were in London?”

  “Yes, tell me about the life of a fancy lady in London,” Annie exclaimed. Prue glanced from one to the other, both of them watching her, waiting to hear how she spent her days when she wasn’t helping bake bread in a small country inn.

  “My aunt and I began each day reading the newspapers and drinking chocolate in her room.” It was a lovely ritual. Lady Dare sat up in bed, whilst Prue sat comfortably on the settee. “We trade pages of The London Weekly and discuss the news and gossip.”

  “Already I am jealous!” Annie said with a sigh. “I’d love to have just one day to sit abed, drinking chocolate. Tell me it gets even better after that.”

  “Then we dress,” Prudence said. “And pay calls. Or remain in our drawing room if it is our day to entertain visitors.” She neglected to mention that those visitors were usually for Lady Dare, never suitors for Prue. “Often I spend time with my friends at the shops, or museums, or we walk in the park.”

  “Do you go to fancy balls each night?”

  “Most evenings, yes,” Prudence said.

  “How fabulous,” Annie sighed. She had a sparkle in her eyes and a dreamy smile. Prue didn’t have the heart to tell her she spent each ball rooted in the corner with the other misfit girls. She didn’t waltz with handsome gentlemen, or sip champagne, or get swept up in the romance of it all.

  “I suppose,” Prudence said with a sigh of her own. Four seasons, wasted. Another two-eighths of her life spent cowering in fear rather than celebrating the fact that she was a young woman of good reputation, connections, and money. She was a proper young lady.

  Was.

  The Beast, the failed elopement, highway robbery, and now days spent without a chaperone in a country inn had put an end to calling herself a proper young lady.

  But was that really the worst thing? Or did she dare to confess it felt the slightest bit freeing, like a loosening of her corset strings?

  “What brings you this way?” Castleton asked. There was something in the way he looked at her that was unnerving. As if he really saw her. As if he read between her lines. As if he knew all of her secrets.

  “Oh, it’s a long story,” Prue said.

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Perhaps you might like to don dry clothes,” she suggested. “Or else you’ll catch your death of a cold.”

  “Are you concerned about my welfare, Miss Merryweather?”

  “No, just the horses,” she replied, half smiling. “Someone has to tend to them, and I fear I would do a terrible job of it.”

  “Perhaps if the rain lets up, I’ll show you this afternoon.”

  She turned her attentions back to the thick mass of dough under her hand. As she kneaded, she thought of all the reasons she could not go out into the stables with him alone. Or rather, she grasped at reasons.

  What of her reputation? A lady oughtn’t be alone with a man. But that ship had long since sailed for her, and it was quite silly to insist on such propriety now. Besides, if she was determined to avoid the London gentlemen, the stables were another place they’d never find her.

  But she was afraid to be alone with Castleton. Why, he could be the highwayman who had robbed her mail coach, for all she knew! She doubted it, but with her luck, it was prudent to consider it.

  And yet . . . how would things have been different if The Beast and the highwayman had never appeared? She certainly would have danced more, especially with Castleton.

  Perhaps when a gentleman smiled at her she would have had the strength to return his gaze rather than fix her attention upon the floor. She would have gotten in Castleton’s carriage and allowed him to sweep her off her feet. That perfectly timed rescue would have convinced her that Prince Charming existed and he had come for her. Then again, if she still believed in true love and happily ever after, she wouldn’t have eloped with Cecil in the first place.

  If it weren’t for this fear grasping her by the throat, who knows what her life would be like? Who knows what happiness awaited her if she could just shake it off?

  And then she felt it: the moment when everything changed and the dough became soft, pliant, and wonderful under her palms. The moment when all that hard work delivered its reward. The moment when there was a phase change. The moment when the dough was ready to rise.

  DUDLEY GLANCED AT the time and rolled back under the covers with a groan. Noon had come and gone. But the rain—that was still pounding on the roof and lashing at the windows. He’d care less if he didn’t have places to get to, like the boxing match. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks. One bright spot in the insipid round of parties. One spot where his father wouldn’t be nagging him about duties in London, how he ought to marry, how he ought to behave. He was a man, not a boy, for Chrissakes. Men did what they damned well pleased.

  Such thoughts always made him cross and were unbearable before he had coffee and something to eat. When his valet didn’t come quickly enough after ringing, Dudley dressed hastily and went out in the corridor.

  He took a guess which door belonged to Fitz-Herbert.

  Then he knocked.

  PRUDENCE WAS STARTLED by the knock on her door. She hadn’t requested anything. The beating of her heart started to echo the knocking at her door. Who could it be? What if it was one of the London gentlemen?

  This was the fear again, taking hold and refusing to let go.

  She took a deep breath, willed her heart to slow down, and asked, “Who is it?”

  FITZ-HERBERT STUMBLED AROUND his room, pulling on his shirt, swearing when he stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed. What bloody arse was pounding on his door at this ungodly hour? What was the hour, anyway? He glanced at the window and saw more gray, more rain. If this kept up, they could kiss away their plans to attend the boxing match.

  At least they weren’t drowned at the bottom of that river. Dudley was his friend, but he was also an idiot.

  Knock knock knock

  “Bloody hell, give a man a minute,” Fitz-Herbert shouted at whoever had the audacity to interrupt his much-needed sleep with their persistent pounding.<
br />
  He opened the door.

  “WHO IS IT?” Prudence asked.

  “It’s me,” a male voice answered. She recognized that voice. It brought a nervous smile to her lips.

  Prudence opened the door.

  John stood before her. He wore a clean, dry shirt (alas), buff breeches, a waistcoat, and jacket.

  And, oh, that smile of his: shy and warm, with that dimple and the sparkle in his blue eyes. If she weren’t so afraid, she would let herself fall in love just for his smile alone. She was more and more determined to conquer her fear . . . which meant she might fall in love with him. Which terrified her anew.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to join me in the stables. That is, if you’re not busy.”

  Prudence gave a happy, nervous little laugh. The circumstances were strange, but this felt like a suitor asking if he might call upon her one afternoon or take her for a turn around a ballroom.

  In London, a proper gentleman would never ask a proper Lady to join him in the stables. But they were not in London. And she couldn’t really claim to be a proper lady anymore, anyway. She decided the rules did not apply.

  Nevertheless, she murmured, “I don’t know.”

  The question wasn’t whether she wanted to go to the stables with him (she did) but whether she trusted him enough.

  “Of course. Ladies don’t go to the stables,” he said, and though he smiled, this one didn’t reach his eyes. She was aware, immediately, of someone offending him or perhaps disappointing him. How or why she could not fathom. But there was a sudden, almost imperceptible change in his demeanor because of her hesitancy. Did he think her a snob? Why did his altered opinion of her make her sad and immediately determined to win back his favor? She could explain her trepidation . . . or she could just say yes and have faith.

  “I will,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I just need a moment, and then I will meet you there.”

  ONE DOOR SHUT and another opened.

  Dudley and Fitz-Herbert lumbered down the stairs into the parlor, talking loudly of being starving and in desperate need of food, coffee, and dry weather.

  Meanwhile, Prudence waited behind her closed door.