by Maya Rodale
She paused, with pursed lips and lowered eyes, before answering.
“I’m sure they would want to talk about their machine with anyone interested.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he admitted. “I want to be the first. There’s money to be made here, and I intend to be the one making it.”
He had to have every advantage and get as much done as soon as possible. Because once his past got out, they wouldn’t be doing business with him and he’d be worse off than when he’d started. If such a thing was even possible.
“It’s just a little rain,” said Miss Merryweather.
“I’m told the direct road to London is impassable, due to flooding. The gents that arrived the other night said so. I could go around it, I suppose,” John said. He sighed. “If I left this afternoon.”
“The rain does seem to have lightened,” she said. “You could probably get through.”
In an instant he knew that he felt something powerful for Miss Prudence Merryweather. The thought of leaving her caused an actual physical ache in the region of his heart. The thought of never seeing her again was gutting. She was a wounded creature alone in the world. He couldn’t leave her and call himself a gentleman. He couldn’t leave her, because he would miss her.
He wasn’t done with Miss Merryweather. Not that he had plans or designs, just that there was more there to explore; he knew it with a bone-deep certainty. He could not go, not yet, and that is why he was vexed. He was tugged in two directions.
Those eyes. That rare smile that made him forget everything else. The hint of what she would feel like in his arms. He wanted to lose himself in her curves, taste her, know her, soothe her, protect her. In more ways than she would ever, ever know, he wanted to be the man for her.
He felt all that for a woman he’d known just a few days.
John pushed his fingers through his hair again. He was ridiculous. His mother had warned him that his tendency to throw caution to the wind and care for wounded creatures would do him in.
But really, what was he going to do—stay here with her? Would he really risk missing his chance to connect with the inventors of the Difference Engine for a lovely, curious young girl all alone in the world?
Yes. If she wanted.
His breath hitched in his throat as that thought struck. There was too much at stake for him to lose himself to a woman. If he failed to make this scheme work, he wouldn’t be able to rescue his mother and his sister. Prudence wasn’t the only distressed damsel in his life.
He glanced again at her. Lips parted slightly. The rise and fall of her breasts covered up in a modest dress. Auburn hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was so prim. He wanted to see her in the throes of pleasure, wild with abandon. He wanted her laughter, her smile.
John wanted to know that she was experiencing these feelings for him. But she was always so reserved and restrained, as if she couldn’t possibly wish to let go.
His voice sounded weary when he spoke: “What should I do, Miss Merryweather?”
He wasn’t asking about his travel plans, but the innermost depths of her heart.
To which she replied, “I couldn’t say.”
Suddenly, he was irritated—no, furious—that this slip of a girl had captivated him so completely as to forget his plans. Because of her, he was considering waiting out this storm that could last for God only knew how long, in this inn which was in God only knew what town. Because of this girl, who fled after the briefest kiss, he was considering missing his chance to have the advantage of being the first manufacturer of the Difference Engine. It wasn’t just a deal; it was everything to him.
His temper flared, but he gritted his jaw, containing himself.
It was a way to save his mum and sister from a cruel fate they didn’t deserve. It was a way for him to be the man he yearned to be, even though society made it nearly impossible. Didn’t she realize that? Didn’t she know what she did to him?
“What do you intend to do?” he asked. “Will you wait here for the rain to cease? And then where will you go?”
What did she want? Why did he care so much?
“I am not certain of my plans yet,” she replied.
She gave the impression that she wasn’t speaking only of when to leave for London; it seemed as if she was also speaking about what she would do with the rest of her life, which was absurd. She was lovely. She’d find a husband and have a passel of auburn-haired babies with doe eyes.
He could so easily imagine himself marrying her. Loving her. Making a family with her. God help him, he ached with wanting at the thought. A wife was out of the question, though. He’d laid that possibility to rest the night his luck had changed. He had no future with any woman, least of all a fancy London Lady like Prudence.
Pushing his fingers through his hair, he reminded himself to think of the Difference Engine instead of the girl. A girl! This was his one chance. He’d gambled and won enough to own a significant chunk of a factory—and the profits from its products. Enough to provide for his sister and mother.
Enough to provide for Miss Merryweather. If she wanted. But he doubted she would.
Her head was bowed, attention focused on her book. She didn’t want him.
The truth of it affected him more than he cared to admit. But there was no denying the tightness in his chest.
“I think I’ll go pack my things,” he said, carefully watching her reaction with bated breath. He wanted her to want him to stay. He couldn’t breathe as he waited for her response. John had played games where thousands of pounds had depended upon the flip of a card—a sum that could have saved him or ruined him. He’d never felt such anticipation then as he did now.
He counted the silences where his heartbeat should be: One. Two. Three. Four. His whole life, suddenly, depended upon the words she uttered next.
Prudence just nodded. That was all. A little nod of her head, which put into perspective the rash things he’d been considering. He turned to go.
PRUDENCE NODDED, BECAUSE she didn’t trust herself to speak. There were a million words on her tongue and caught in her throat. She wanted him to stay with an intensity that rendered her breathless and mute. If only she could say the word “Stay” without fearing that he would interpret it to mean she’d welcome liberties she could not grant him.
She’d felt a yearning deep inside ever since she’d first laid eyes on him. She, who had long been dead on the inside, was stirring to life with his every smile and kindness. With that oh-so-brief kiss, he awakened even more senses in her that she wanted to explore.
She thought she had died and he was bringing her back to life. Didn’t he see that? How could he not see?
She did not want to be left alone, but that was her fate, wasn’t it? How many tragedies must she endure—like Dudley violently compromising her or Cecil ruthlessly sacrificing her—before she stopped holding out hope?
She had survived all that, as well as ballrooms and dark forests, on her own.
She was fine. FINE.
It was torture, this. For the first time she yearned for a man’s touch, yet she was still terrified of finding herself in a vulnerable position. If only she could be a normal young lady, even in these abnormal circumstances.
Prudence thought all these things whilst Castleton was upstairs packing his bags and preparing to leave her. Perhaps they would reconnect in London, when he finally met the duke about the engine. It was likely that they would; this, then, was not the end. She felt an undeniable happiness at the prospect, which told her all she needed to know about her feelings for him.
But . . .
Would he be angry at her for not telling him about her connection? Possibly. But she couldn’t share that information without revealing herself as Miss Payton, not Miss Merryweather. Oh, did she sigh in frustration, a sad little exhalation.
She just couldn’t win, could she?
Prudence was just a bundle of secrets and lies. No man in his right mind would w
ant her once he knew the truth. She ought to really give up all hope. She ought to just stay in this chair, in this parlor, for the rest of her days.
The sound of gentlemen’s voices made her immediately reconsider her plans to stay before the fire bemoaning her fate. The voices came closer, accompanied by the sound of boots thudding down the stairs.
Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump.
Was that the sound of their steps, or was that the sound of her heart, pounding hard and loud? Because Prudence recognized that voice. When he stepped into the parlor and glanced her way, she recognized that face. That smile. The way it made her lungs constrict and ice pulse through her veins.
The Beast.
Lord Dudley.
Here.
Why was he here? She didn’t even know where she was, and yet he had found her. It must be some coincidence. Some sick twist of fate. Had she not suffered enough?
To hell with you, God.
Dudley’s cold, hard eyes fixated on her. This knot in her belly was cold, hard fear, and its icy tentacles were stealing throughout her limbs. She was frozen.
This was a young wounded lamb looking into the eyes of a wolf. So pathetically vulnerable.
Are you there, God? No, obviously not.
When The Beast’s lips curved into a smile—she knew that smile—Prudence thought she might be sick. What. Was. He. Doing. Here?
What did it even matter? He was here, ruining everything, again. Just when she had started to snatch back something like happiness! John had gone upstairs to pack, leaving her alone to face her worst nightmare in the flesh.
“Well, well, well . . . ,” The Beast murmured. Even his eyes upon her felt like a violation.
Because Prudence was no longer A Lady, she did not feel bound to uphold modes of proper behavior. This time she fled, pushing past him (ah, the advantage of surprise!) to run up the stairs, where she might barricade herself safely in her room and never, ever leave again.
On the top step she tripped. Her toe caught on the stair and she hit the wooden floorboards with a thud.
Dudley, just a short step behind her, hauled her up, twisting the fabric of her dress as he did.
Ladies did not scream. Prudence did. The wretched, fearful, mournful sound was rent from her soul, and it scared her. It must have scared Dudley, too, for he froze for a moment. She tried to seize the moment and scramble away, but then his grasp on her arm tightened. There would be bruises. She could survive bruises. It was what came next that she didn’t think she would survive a second time.
“Hello, Prude Prudence,” he said amiably, as if they’d met under polite circumstances. Say, over tea, during calling hours. As if he didn’t have an iron grasp on her arm, holding her against her will. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She spat in his face, her act of defiance surprising her as much as it did him.
He didn’t like it, no.
Then Dudley pushed her against a door. Her head smacked against the wood.
Dudley, The Beast, ground his hips against hers. Prudence felt him prodding her. She felt the nausea and the bile rising.
She also felt adamant. Not this. Not again. Where was Castleton?
Where was Castleton? John knew the question on her lips, in her heart, uttered uselessly to an empty drawing room. And he was stuck here, in this damned interview that could lead to nothing good. John glanced at the clock. He had somewhere to be. He had made a promise.
Some believe that luck was bestowed upon them. John knew that luck was something to be seized and held onto with both hands. Luck was something a man couldn’t think twice about.
John knew he had to act now. To hell with the consequences.
There would be consequences. But all that mattered was getting to Prudence before it was too late.
He seized one opportunity, then another, until he was on his way to her, galloping on a massive beast of a stallion. Hooves thundering. Breath heaving. Heart threatening to explode with each and every beat. John whispered her name into the wind. There was no stopping—until the screaming began.
Chapter 12
WHEN HE HEARD the scream, John was carefully folding his linen shirts and placing them in his valise, along with his one suit of evening clothes and a thin packet of letters from his mother and sister. He had been mentally calculating how much longer it would take to arrive in London in these conditions, and by a more circuitous route and if he might still make it in time.
First he heard the voices of those two London gents as they emerged from their bedchambers and stumbled down to the parlor in search of breakfast, even though it was late in the afternoon. He ignored them.
Next, he heard little footsteps racing up the stairs, followed by a thud. It was probably nothing more than one of the Hammersmith children racing around and running into things. Unsurprisingly, they were becoming rambunctious after being confined indoors for so long. Heavy boot steps followed. It was probably Mr. Hammersmith, chasing after one of his wayward brood.
John carefully folded a linen shirt and placed it in his valise.
And then he heard the scream, the kind that was not something in a child’s playful game or a shriek at a mouse. This was the sort of scream that was pure terror.
John threw his door open immediately. He felt nothing, only acted on instinct to stop anything that made a woman scream like that.
Then he saw Prudence. Then he felt everything.
She was pinned up against a door, her face ashen as she pressed her cheek against the wood, angling her face away from the man who was forcing his weight against her.
John recognized the man in an instant. Dudley, a sore loser he had encountered at the Kingswood Race and other house parties attended by bachelor gamblers and prostitutes. He was an ass. That was the last coherent thought John had before he sprang into action.
John roared. He lunged, throwing his not inconsiderable bulk onto Dudley. They hit the floorboards with a brutish thud, in a tangle of limbs. John pulled his arm back before slamming his fist into Dudley’s face. Something cracked. Something bled. He did it again.
Then Dudley heaved himself up and forward, launching them both down the stairs in a series of sickening thuds and sharp jabs of stair edges into spines. Dudley swung on the way down, a few of his punches landing on John’s jaw, the side of his head, his shoulder.
Dudley’s friend stepped out from the parlor, took one look at the situation, and dropped his weight onto John’s back, drawing a roar from deep down inside because of the pain that started at his spine and radiated through his limbs. John was vaguely aware of the sound of others screaming to stop. But they sounded so far away, and as long as Dudley was fighting back, John would not stop.
He heard the smack of his fists connecting with someone’s face. The grunts of a man taking a hit. The sounds of heavy, labored breaths. Then there was the dull rumble constantly ringing in his ears. Were they ringing from a hit? Or was he yelling? He might be yelling.
And then they were limp beneath him. John stood and looked down at the two bruised and bloodied gentlemen—ha!—sprawled on the floor at his feet.
“There’s no room here for them,” John informed the innkeeper between deep, heaving breaths.
“With all due respect, my lord, I have spare rooms and mouths to feed,” Rutherford said apologetically.
“I’ll pay for them. All of them. Double the regular rate. You’re fully booked. There are no rooms.”
“There are no rooms,” Rutherford informed the two lords who lay in a bruised and bloody heap on the foyer floor.
One of the jackasses on the floor shuffled up, balancing his weight on his elbows. His black eyes narrowed as he focused on John.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Castleton.” He pronounced this with more authority than God did when declaring, “It was good” on the seventh day.
Jackass’s lips twitched.
“Castleton? Really?”
He stopped smirking when Castleton delivered a b
oot to his gut. But something about his mockery struck him badly. Had Prudence heard it? He turned to look.
Prudence stood trembling at the top of the stairs, her hands anxiously twisting the fabric of her skirts. Her gaze locked with his. There was nothing else in that moment but her. And him.
She didn’t avert her eyes, even though he must have been a frightful sight. His white shirt was damp with sweat and blood. His jaw hurt like something else. He reached up, tentatively touching the painful spot near his eye. Blood. And his hands—they were a bruised, red, and swollen mess.
He placed one foot on the stair, as if to make his way up to her. She flinched. But she stood her ground.
He took the step. Then one more. She held his gaze. His heart started to pound. His feelings for her were written all over his face and hands; the cuts and bruises confessed what he hadn’t even expressed to himself.
When he reached the top of the stairs, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said, voice rough.
Of course he was going to fight for her, protect her, care for her. John would do so for any woman, but this time he had been scared. This time he’d felt so damned much he was lucky he hadn’t fought to the death.
She shook her head and led him into her bedchamber—careful to leave the door wide open. At her bidding, he sat down on the chair as she dipped a cloth in a basin of cool water.
Quietly she worked, dabbing the cloth against his face. He closed his eyes, savoring the pleasant feeling of the cool water against his hot, sweaty skin. Gently, she smoothed the cloth across his brow, his cheeks, his neck. She wrapped the cold, wet cloth around his hands one by one, holding it in place for a moment to soothe the burning.
Prudence’s thoughts were a jumbled mess as she worked to clean up Castleton. He had saved her. He had come, when no one ever came. He looked hurt, raw, ragged. Nothing like the dapper, charming gentleman she had met on the side of the road. This was another side of him—raw, powerful, uncivilized.