What a Wallflower Wants

by Maya Rodale

  “You’re not really Miss Merryweather, are you?”

  “It’s my middle name. My real name is Prudence Merryweather Payton.”

  Beside her, he tensed. She felt it in his leg, touching hers, and she saw it in his jaw.

  “Are you mad?” Prudence asked nervously.

  “No,” he said quickly. “I’d be mad if you gave your real name to a stranger you met alongside the road one afternoon.”

  “I never thought someone would understand me,” Prudence sighed. Oh, Emma and Olivia knew her quite well, and they were knowledgeable about all her likes (chocolate, pastries, kittens) and dislikes (mean people, cold weather, tea without sugar). But they didn’t understand her wounded soul the way Castleton seemed to.

  Then again, how could they, when she’d never confided in them?

  “When you’ve been let down, as you have, I suppose it’s hard not to underestimate people,” Castleton remarked, easily putting into words an entire knot of feelings she’d been walking around with for years.

  “No one came,” Prudence said softly. “I kept hoping someone would come and stop it. But I only just realized that if I had been caught with him, we’d have been forced to marry. Then he would . . .” She paused, searching for the word to describe what had happened to her. One that would not stick in her throat or pierce her heart to say aloud. “. . . he would hurt me again and again and again, and it would be his legal right to do so. What a sick concept of honor.” The unfair truth of that made her ache. “So I didn’t cry out for help as loudly as I could have, and I never told anyone. I just wanted it to be over so I could get on with pretending it never happened.”

  Castleton looked ahead, stony-faced. The horses carried on. Just when she thought he might be unmoved by her confession—leaving her to feel utterly foolish for sharing it—she saw him wipe his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Do you know what they call me?” Prudence asked. This unburdening was terrifying—and then it felt good once those words were out. So when they kept bubbling up, she didn’t try to stop them.

  “The loveliest girl in London?”

  She cracked a wry smile.

  “Prude Prudence. Do you know what else they call me?”

  “The most beautiful woman in the world?”

  “London’s Least Likely to Be Caught in a Compromising Position,” she said dryly. “Doesn’t that just slay you?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. For a moment, a comfortable silence stretched between them. For years she had wanted to share the irony of the nicknames the ton had bestowed on her. It felt good to have finally done so.

  And then softly, Castleton spoke up. “Prudence?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to scare you,” he said, “but I think I might be falling in love with you.”

  Prudence sat very still beside him, with her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t know what to say to that. So she said, “Well, that is unexpected.”

  “For you, perhaps. I thought it was inevitable the moment I set eyes on you.”

  “You knew from half a mile away that the mess of a girl on the side of the road was lovable?” She glanced over at him, wondering if he was mad.

  “I knew the minute you refused my offer for a ride and insisted on walking. You’re one tough filly,” he said. “You’re a lovely, remarkable woman.” This time it was her turn to look away and take in the scenery, although the tears slicking her eyes made it all a bit blurry.

  “Prudence, thank you for offering the introduction. But you don’t have to.”

  “I want to.” She did want to, with her whole heart. “Besides, they love talking about the engine, and it bores me and my friends to tears.”

  “Emma and Olivia, right?” he asked, glancing at her to ascertain if he was correct.

  “You remember,” Prudence marveled.

  “I was listening,” he said with a shrug. And then his face broke into a wide grin. “Look ahead, Prudence.”

  “Is that sunshine?” she asked. Up ahead, rays of sunlight were streaming through gray clouds that were breaking up and drifting away.

  Chapter 15

  The Lion & Lamb Inn

  Pangbourne

  DUDLEY AND FITZ-HERBERT were lounging in a private parlor, enjoying a meal and killing time before the fight, though anyone who caught a glimpse of them would assume the fight had already happened.

  Fitz-Herbert sported a black eye and a cut lip. Dudley’s noble, patrician nose had been broken and hastily tended to by a harried Fitz-Herbert in the inn while the innkeeper had been hollering at them to get out, and they’d been hollering at their valets to hurry up already. So it wasn’t set properly, and would probably sit at an awkward angle upon his face for the rest of his life. The black-and-blue eyes would fade, eventually. Already the bruises around his light blue eyes were fading to a sickening shade of yellowish green. There was no denying it: he looked ghastly.

  Dudley took a swallow of wine and eyed the letter a footman had just delivered. He recognized his father’s crest in the red wax sealing the vellum shut. It was with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that he opened it and scanned the words.

  Letters from his father rarely conveyed good news. And if there was a bright spot, it was also tempered by an order. This missive was no exception.

  “Bloody hell,” Dudley muttered after he read it. Crumpling the paper in frustration wasn’t satisfying, for the pain in his hands only reminded him of the beating he’d suffered.

  “What now?” Fitz-Herbert asked. He was sprawled in a chair before the fire, lazily blowing misshapen smoke rings.

  “My father has tracked me down.”

  “Is the old man here?”

  “Of course he’s not here,” Dudley said in a tone that conveyed his low estimation of his friend’s intelligence. “We all know the old man couldn’t drag his fat arse away from Scarbrough Park even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. No, he sent a footman with a message.”

  “Impressive how they found you,” Fitz-Herbert remarked, even though it wasn’t.

  “We told everyone we were coming here for the boxing match. It’s not impressive at all, though it’s incredibly annoying to be bothered with these tedious domestic matters when I am traveling.”

  “What does he want? I’m assuming he wants something from you. Otherwise, why would he write? Or has he suddenly developed a concern for your welfare and interest in your thoughts?”

  Both gents burst into bitter laughter.

  His father was not interested in his thoughts. On the few occasions when he had ventured his opinion on the management of the estate, his father had called him an ignorant and inexperienced hack. Never mind that his inexperience was entirely owing to his father’s refusal to share the duties of the estate or educate his son. Dudley had a piddly little estate that was his to manage, but it was so small and unprofitable that it was hardly worth the bother, especially when his father footed his bills.

  And as for interest in his welfare? Dudley snorted. He was only important as the heir, which made him very important indeed. So important that his father impressed that fact upon hosts and hostesses around town, who would rather not invite Dudley but knew that they ought to—or else risk the disapproval of the ancient and respected estate of the Marquis of Scarbrough.

  But as a person? As a son? The old marquis couldn’t care less.

  He was merely Lord Dudley, his courtesy title. He was the future Marquis of Scarbrough. That was all.

  “Well? What’s he say?” Fitz-Herbert asked impatiently.

  “I am to escort my sister to a stupid ball,” Dudley said, feeling emasculated just saying the words.

  “So we’ll arrive with her and then hit the card room.” Fitz-Herbert shrugged. Then again, he didn’t have any sisters to squire around town.

  “A brilliant plan—if you were invited, which you are not. This ball is for her girl’s school,” Dudley said witheringly. “Lady Penelope’s something or other.”

/>   “What do girls need to go to school for anyway?” Fitz-Herbert mused.

  What followed was a list of carnal acts they thought ought to be taught at a ladies’ school. This kept them amused for the duration of half an hour and half a bottle of wine.

  But Dudley couldn’t quite forget about the crumpled sheet of vellum there on the table amidst the dishes, cigar stubs, ashes, and wineglasses. It mocked him, that letter. It reminded him what a puppet he was. His father knew just how to make him dance to his tune, much as he was loath to do it.

  “We’ll have to leave soon in order to make it to London in time,” Dudley said darkly.

  “Soon? We only just arrived!” Fitz-Herbert exclaimed. He pulled a face, making plain that he was not pleased to be planning their departure already. “And I hope I don’t need to remind you why we were delayed.”

  “Aye, because you wouldn’t ford the river,” Dudley said. If only they had taken that little risk. . . .

  “We would have drowned.”

  “Instead we were beaten within an inch of our lives.” Dudley fought the urge to press his fingers against the tender bruises on his face. Instead he looked down at his fists—red, gnarled, cut, swollen. These were not the hands of an aristocrat.

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Dudley just shrugged.

  He remembered feeling so helpless—there had been the rain, and always orders from his father. He remembered because he always felt so frustrated that he couldn’t do anything. And then Prude Prudence had bizarrely been there.

  He had come up with that name for her. And it had stuck, for years now. He felt a bit of triumph at being a trendsetter amongst the ton, even if he didn’t get credit for it.

  She’d been there, and all he’d been able to think about was how powerful she had made him feel that one time, before. First she’d fought, and then she’d realized he’d been stronger and given in. How was he to have known that this time she’d had some hulk of a man ready at her defense? She was one of London’s Least Likely, for Chrissakes. Those girls were destined from the start to be spinsters, everyone knew it. They existed to fill out the corner of the ballrooms, as if hostesses ordered them as part of their ballroom décor—potted palms, a punch bowl, wallflowers. In fact, he had often wondered—fleetingly, for he didn’t dwell on such matters—if those wallflowers even existed outside the confines of a ballroom.

  Which begged the question, what had Prude Prudence been doing at that country inn? That begged another question: what the hell did he care?

  That letter was still on the table, intruding upon his line of vision.

  “We’ll have to miss the last day of boxing,” Dudley said darkly. “If we go.”

  “Are you going to go?” Fitz-Herbert asked.

  “Apparently, if I wish for him to pay my gambling debt to Lord Inverness, I will be there with bloody bells on.”

  “What do you owe him? I can’t recall . . .” Fitz-Herbert wisely refrained from mentioning the numerous losses he’d racked up lately. It was just a losing streak; it would end soon.

  “I owe him five thousand pounds because of an unfortunate hand I was dealt in a game of vingt-et-un.”

  “Ah, right. The game at Collins’s house party. What a night that was. . . .”

  It had been a splendid house party. There hadn’t been any marriage-minded mothers with horse-faced daughters angling to trap a man into a leg shackling. This event had been strictly bachelors. Wealthy bachelors. They’d woken late in the afternoon and wagered through the night. The wine and the brandy had flowed freely.

  And the women . . . Lord Collins had seen to it that there were women available. The sort that didn’t say no or put up a fuss but just got a man off when he wanted and how he wanted.

  The low point, of course, had been that game with Inverness. Dudley remembered it clearly, even though he wished he didn’t. Looking down at the cards in his hand. The dampness of his palms. Looking up at Inverness, who sat stone-faced with a winning hand. Looking at the blunt piled high in the middle of the table—paper, IOUs, and gold coins that had glowed in the candlelight. And then, on the other side of the room, at another table, playing another game: Castleton.

  He’d been a stranger then. But Dudley just now matched the face to the name.

  He’d been at that damned horse race in Kingswood, too. The man was just everywhere, wasn’t he?

  Dudley sat up suddenly. No. It couldn’t be.

  Or could it?

  He’d read something in the newspaper about Castleton this morning. He’d had a raging headache at the time, so his recollection was a bit unreliable, but—

  The newspaper! Dudley looked over at the fire burning in the grate. There were logs, twigs, and wadded-up sheets of newsprint.

  He nearly knocked over his chair in his haste to grab the sheets from the flames. He burned his fingertips, he blew out the flames licking at the sheets, he scanned the tiny print until he saw the words “Fashionable Intelligence,” and then he kept reading until that name caught his attention.

  Dear readers, I have saved the best for last. For the first time in an age, tongues are wagging about Lord Castleton. After his extended tour on the Continent and lands unknown, the handsome viscount has sent word that he will shortly be returning to England aboard the ship Rahala.

  “This says that Castleton has just returned to England. Or is about to.”

  “So?”

  “We just encountered Castleton in a remote country inn,” Dudley said. He’d never been great at sums, but this . . . there was something not right with the way the facts were adding up.

  “Aye. And . . . ?” Fitz-Herbert was even worse with sums, facts, getting the point, and the like.

  “He was at Collins’s party. I remember him now. He kept quiet, except to rake in the winnings. And he was at that horse race.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  “A man can’t be in two places at once. This says Castleton just returned to England, but we know he’s been here for at least a few weeks.”

  “Interesting,” Fitz-Herbert remarked. Dudley felt a surge of pride, which was immediately tested when Fitz-Herbert asked, “What’s the date on the newspaper?”

  Smugly, Dudley looked down at the sheet. No. Bloody hell.

  “I can’t tell! It’s bloody burned off.”

  “So it could be yesterday’s paper. Or it could be from six months ago,” Fitz-Herbert rationalized. “One never knows when this far outside of London.”

  Dudley felt himself choking on garbled sounds of rage. His life was always like this moment—almost brilliant, almost clever, almost and always not quite. But this time, he had a nagging feeling about this Castleton—and a determination to pay him back for the damage he had inflicted upon his face.

  “C’mon, let’s go see the fight. It should be starting soon.”

  Aye, a fight. He was in the mood for that. Dudley crumpled the sheet of newspaper and left it on the table. Then he swigged the last of the wine, donned his jacket, and followed his friend out into the night.

  John had rushed out into the night, sparing no thought for anything except for her. His jacket was open. His cravat had long since lost its complicated, starched arrangement. He no longer looked like a perfect gentleman. He no longer cared.

  Had he been too late? When he finally arrived, there was evidence of a fight.

  He crossed the room, shards of broken glass crunching under his boots.

  John knew he was being watched. This scene unfolding was at once a long time coming, and only just beginning.

  Chapter 16

  The Lion & Lamb Inn

  Pangbourne

  THEIR ARRIVAL AT this inn was a long time coming, or so it seemed to John after days and days of being stranded elsewhere, his ever more intimate acquaintanceship with Prudence, and hours and hours on the road today.

  And yet, as they were shown into a private parlor that a servant had just finished clearing of cigar ash, empty wineglasse
s, and a crumpled-up newssheet, he had the distinct feeling that things were only just beginning.

  The girl before him was much more at ease and animated than the nearly defeated girl he had first met. Her every slight smile or shy glance had him hooked, craving more. He’d do anything for more.

  Over a supper of simple fare and no wine, they conversed about . . . he hardly remembered the topics, just that he was falling, falling, falling for this girl who possessed a beauty, strength, and resilience that awed him. Knowing her as he did made those sweet smiles and shy glances affect him all the more. Blood rushing. Heart pumping. Breath catching. Did she feel it, too?

  THIS WAS A new feeling. Prudence had never felt this before: light and lovely and finally understood. She had told Castleton her secret and he hadn’t turned coldly away from her. She had entrusted herself in his care, and thus far, along miles and miles and miles of empty roads, he hadn’t taken advantage of her. She was nervous about this evening.

  What would happen next?

  What did she want?

  When it was time to retire, the innkeeper regretfully informed them only one room remained. He added that there was a boxing match nearby and all the inns around for miles were full up with spectators. Prudence did not understand the appeal of a boxing match; judging by the crowds, she was the only one who felt thusly.

  Castleton said one room would be fine for him and his wife.

  “You could have told everyone I was your sister,” Prudence remarked as they climbed the stairs up to their room. Not that she wanted him to. Thus far she liked pretending to be Lady Castleton. But they could have done so.

  “Have you seen the way I look at you?” Castleton murmured, leaning close to her. “I’d be arrested for indecency if I were caught looking at my sister like that.”

  Prudence blushed and tripped on a step. She hadn’t considered herself desirable or an object of lust. But Castleton was attracted to her as a person, as a woman. It was plain in his gaze.

  “That makes me feel nervous about sharing a room with you,” Prudence said.