by Maya Rodale
The innkeeper, a reedy little man bustled over, shutting the door behind John. He took a look at John’s wet and worn attire, which labeled him as a poor nobody even when it was freshly pressed.
John drew himself up to his full height of six feet two.
“Good evening, but I’m afraid—” the little man stammered, John’s appearance suggesting peasant. But if he was doing it right, John’s expression was all haughty lord.
“I am Castleton.”
The declaration was made in the cultured manner of a British aristocrat, an accent John had spent years practicing. Castleton wasn’t just a name—it was an essential truth, a history, a statement of his wealth, a declaration of his honor and worth. It was more than a name, more than a man, and the way John uttered Castleton made all that crystal clear.
It was also a complete lie.
Castleton was the title of the man who might be his father and was now possessed by a man who might be his brother and who had left the country years ago. Castlemore Court was where John had grown up, and he knew it like the back of his hand. John knew all the family stories. Hell, he even had the same name as his possible half brother.
He just didn’t have the title. Until now.
The lords a lounging looked up from their game in surprise. “Castleton!” Another exclaimed, “You’re back!” And yet another said, “It’s been an age!”
Castleton nodded in acknowledgment. It helped that he and the viscount were of roughly the same age and, though it was never commented upon, remarkably similar in appearances. It also helped that the real Lord Castleton had left England to travel some time ago.
“I’d like a room and a hot bath,” Castleton informed the innkeeper.
“Right this way.”
“Come down and join us once you’ve cleaned up a bit,” one of the blocks called out.
“Of course,” he answered.
That was all it took: “I am Castleton.”
A declaration one moment, and the next, he was soaking in a hot bath and the chill in his body started to ease. He had a tray sent up and almost died with pleasure and gratitude when it contained a large bowl full of thick, hearty stew accompanied by fresh bread, salted butter, and a big tankard of ale.
Life for Lord Castleton was good. It was much better than life for John Roark, runaway servant. Why not continue to be Castleton? Finally warm and full, John could think of no good reason not to.
An hour or two later, his clothes had dried enough for him to return downstairs, where he joined the gents playing cards before the roaring fire.
“Pull up a chair, Castleton, and tell us what the devil happened to you.”
He spun an exciting story of his travel on the high seas, full of threatening storms, mad ship captains, and a pirate attack or two. Never having experienced these things himself, he drew upon the books he’d read and the stories he’d heard told over the dinner table. He spoke of his Grand Tour and all the European capitals where he’d drunk the finest wines, dined with aristocrats and influential thinkers, and made love to breathtakingly beautiful women.
Meanwhile, he divested his fellow players of fifty pounds, thanks to the books on mathematics he’d nicked from the library, and Benny, one of the stable hands, who’d learned to count cards. While he had stood about, waiting to pour wine or brandy or port, John had performed calculations in his head to keep himself from going mad at the tedium of it all.
It helped that his companions this evening were deep in their cups and he was not (though he certainly partook of a glass when offered). It helped that they played recklessly, for the thrill of it, rather than to earn enough money to pay for their room at the inn.
By the end of the night, John won enough to pay for the inn and perhaps get a new suit of clothes, which would be essential for his next great gamble: he had secured an invitation to continue on and join them at Lord Collins’s house party—gents and women of loose morals only.
And so it began.
As Lord Castleton, he went from card game to card game, house party to house party, living the life of a debauched lord with no claims on his time. His winnings accumulated and were put away to earn interest. After a few smart investments, his wealth increased.
Within a month, he was able to move his mother and sister out of Blackhaven Manor and into a small cottage in a different village, but that still wasn’t the life he imagined for them. However, frugality and discretion were the order of the day. He was saving, and investing those savings, for something big. The only way to win a fortune was on a massive venture.
Like the Difference Engine.
So he saved and saved, earning just enough to possibly acquire a factory, or shares in the business of the engine—anything that would ensure he was so filthy, unfathomably rich that he would never be cold, hopeless, soaking wet, and starving again.
Chapter 23
On his way to the ball
JOHN NO LONGER gave a damn about being cold, or wet, or starving again. To hell with his plans, his hopes and dreams. The Difference Engine didn’t matter now. He hated to leave his mother and sister, but they would have access to the money he’d already won, earned, accumulated. He might see the inside of Newgate by morning—and God only knew what would happen after that. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Only Prudence mattered.
He had to keep this promise to her. It was all he had left to give.
John was under no illusions: it was only a matter of minutes or hours before she knew the truth about him. She would know that he had been too cowardly to confide in her, when she had bared everything to him.
He deserved to lose her.
But she did not deserve to be left alone on this night, of all nights.
John took advantage of Castleton’s momentary distraction to escape through an open window. He sprinted across the garden to the stables behind the house, where he took the first animal he saw—a massive and restless black stallion. They took off at a gallop.
The black stallion surged beneath him, taking long, powerful strides. Hooves hit dirt, sending rocks kicking back, before launching once more into the air. Digging in his heels against its gut, Castleton urged the horse to go faster still. His own muscles burned from the pressure of gripping the horse between his thighs. His bruised and damaged hands were tangled tightly in the horse’s mane.
There had been no time to saddle up. Opportunities were meant to be seized. He’d grabbed onto this one with both hands.
His heart pounded hard, fast. Echoed in his head loudly, so loudly. But not loud enough to drown out the sound of Prudence’s screams of fear, or her cries of pleasure, or the soft, lilting sound of her laugh. Some things a man never forgot.
The stallion heaved loud, heavy breaths that John could feel underneath him. This was a great distance at a tremendous speed, even for a fine animal like this one.
He would be late. The minutes had ticked by too fast. But he would be there.
Pedestrians flung themselves out of the way when they saw the massive beast bearing down on them. Carriages stopped abruptly or turned swiftly, wisely getting the hell out of his way. This stallion leapt over fences and expertly dodged other carriages. The horse galloped at full speed through dark, narrow alleyways and wide, expansive avenues.
The wind whipped through his hair and stung his clean-shaven face.
Faster, faster, faster, faster.
Yet he felt as if moving through water—slow, thick, lethargic movements. But the wind was at his back and he was on his way to her.
Finally, the house—castle, practically—came into view. The stallion galloped down the drive, gravel flying under his hooves. Ahead, John saw the grand entrance to the house, thick with carriages, loitering drivers, and butlers that would refuse entry to anyone not explicitly invited.
He did not have an invitation.
And on the left, the ballroom stretched out, a long, rectangular room with massive glass windows stretching from floor to cei
ling. Thousands of candles were lit, illuminating the guests in all their finery, having a merry time. They had no idea that Prudence was there, dying a little inside, and that he had to save her.
Digging in his heels, he urged the horse to the left. Moving as one, they charged up the vast expanse of green lawn toward the ballroom.
Up ahead the ballroom loomed. On the terrace, guests mingled. John watched more details come into sharp relief as he got closer. He saw dapper gentlemen with blunt cigars in their fingers, then the bright red tips, then plumes of smoke curling up in the evening sky. Women stood by, delicately clasping flutes of champagne; he got closer and could see their jewels sparkle, and he could hear their posh, never-worried-a-day-in-their-lives laughter.
John and the beast breathed hard, hurling toward them at a furious and punishing pace.
He saw as they all became aware of him—gasps! And then it dawned on them that he was not going to stop. The screaming began as they all fled from his path.
Tall windows, stretching from floor to ceiling, were open.
At the last moment, John urged the stallion to jump up the stairs to the terrace. He sailed up and across, not touching down until they landed in the ballroom.
The horse’s hooves clattered on the parquet floor. More than a few women screamed, and some genuinely swooned. A footman with a tray of champagne glasses was knocked off his feet into a table of lemonade. At the sound of the screams and the shattering glass, the ballroom hushed.
Everyone stood frozen.
Everyone included Prudence.
Dudley was writhing on the floor at her feet and clutching his balls. A grin tugged at John’s lips as he understood what had happened. He hated that she’d had to face him alone, but he was glad to have taught her to defend herself.
Just in case he wasn’t there. . . .
But he was here now.
John dismounted, patting the horse with gratitude. The stallion breathed heavily and pawed the floor as John walked determinedly across the ballroom to his woman. Anyone in his path stepped aside immediately.
Prudence, lovely Prudence, was his. Whoever he was. She belonged to him the way two people who loved each other belonged together. Had she felt it, too?
He stopped before her. She whispered his name. “Castleton.”
“He’s not Castleton,” Dudley said through gritted teeth as he clambered back to his feet.
Prudence furrowed her brow, perplexed.
“I thought I told you to stay away from her,” John said, his voice low and threatening.
“I don’t take orders from pretenders,” Dudley said with a smirk.
There was only one response to that: John swung, his fist connecting so solidly with Dudley’s already bruised jaw that the force of the impact lifted Dudley off his feet before he fell backward onto the floor.
Prudence turned to face John. He was in no condition to see her now. His clothes were a mess from the mad ride to get to her. He was breathing hard from the exertions. And bloody hell, his fist was throbbing like the devil.
“You’re here,” she whispered. As if she had doubted him. It slayed him that she’d had reason to.
“I promised, didn’t I?” He lifted her outstretched hand for a kiss. Her lips parted slightly. Like her, he was thinking of how he really wished to kiss—the completely-lost-in-you-never-need-to-breathe kind of kiss.
“Why does he say that you are not Castleton?” Prudence asked, looking up at him with those scared and wounded doe eyes of hers. His heart ached, literally ached. He could feel it thudding slower and slower in his chest, giving up in the face of a battle that could not be won.
“Waltz with me,” John said softly, reaching out for her.
“Answer me,” she demanded, chin trembling.
“Please. I will explain.” He could hear the raw desperation in his voice. Could she? He tried to smile. “Let’s not waste two-eighths of your life.”
“There’s no music,” Prudence said. The orchestra wasn’t playing. No one in the ballroom was speaking. Everyone was watching this scene unfold, in which a man they didn’t know crashed into their party and begged for a waltz from the girl no one had ever given much notice to.
John held out his hand.
He waited with his hand outstretched and his invitation plain for anyone to see.
Prudence looked around the ballroom, bewildered. Then she lifted her gaze to his. His breath hitched. Could she believe that he’d never meant to deceive her? Could she see that he loved her?
If she would just take his hand, there was hope that this wasn’t the end.
Prudence placed her hand in his. He swept her into his arms. Gazes locked. He nodded, and they began to waltz. One could hear the slight shuffling of their steps: one two three, one two three. The crowds backed away, allowing them room. The orchestra started to play.
Waltzing was something John had learned whilst standing along the perimeter of the ballroom near doors that might need to be opened or closed. Later, he would attempt the steps with a spirited housemaid. He remembered one night when Sally, a lady’s maid, had laughed as she’d said, “When will I ever need to be able to waltz?” He had replied, “You never know. And when the moment comes, you’ll be glad you learned.”
The moment had come. He embraced Prudence, one hand low on her back, another firmly clasping her palm. The last time they had danced had been at the Coach & Horses Inn, in some village, and he remembered her not wanting to be held too close or too tightly.
Tonight was different, because they were lovers now.
Also, he couldn’t risk that she would run away before he could tell her.
Also, this might be the last time he ever held his beautiful girl. It was essential that he be close enough to breathe her in, feel the warmth of her skin and the silk of her skirts catching around his ankles, see all the freckles across her cheeks.
“You are especially beautiful tonight,” he murmured.
“I’ve never been so happy to see you,” she whispered. “But why did he say that you are not Castleton? And why did you not deny it? Why did they laugh at me when I announced myself as Lady Castleton?”
John ignored the sickening feeling in his gut and how this lie of his had spiraled so far out of control. He wanted to tell her about that night when he had been so desperate. He wanted to tell her about all the moments he’d considered confessing everything to her.
Instead he paused and memorized how she gazed up at him. Her velvety brown eyes. The light dusting of freckles. The plump mouth with kisses that undid him. This moment might be the last he ever saw of her.
John took a deep breath. It was time to tell her the truth.
“I am not who I said I was, Prudence,” he said gravely. Her lips parted and her eyes widened. He felt her tense in his arms. There was no time to be a coward now—he would tell her the truth. “The real Lord Castleton has just returned from travels abroad. I can’t say he’s pleased to learn that I’ve been assuming his identity for the past few months.”
Her lips parted, but it was a moment before words emerged.
“If you are not Castleton, then who are you?”
This was the moment he lost her. John hesitated, taking a moment to remember her eyes at this moment: warm and brown and full of emotion. Her lips were full and the color of a plum, and he wanted to kiss her forever and ever.
“John Roark,” he said, his voice rough. “Former footman.”
“A footman?” Prudence gasped, with a nervous little laugh.
Slayed him, that.
He smiled sadly and sighed. She had been raised with a bevy of servants. Footmen were mute men in uniforms who made doors open, transported luggage from carriage to bedchamber and back, and served food and poured wine. They never spoke, and, in their livery, all looked the same.
“Please let me explain,” he pleaded. Begged.
But the full force of his deception was hitting her now. He could see it: all the little explosions of truth, l
aying to waste all the beautiful moments they had constructed together.
“You lied to me,” Prudence whispered. “This whole time, everything we have done, you lied to me?”
He could see her remembering all their intimate moments, from her confession to her cries of pleasure. Every kiss, every secret revealed, every little happiness—and he had been lying to her at every moment.
“Only the title I appropriated was a lie,” he said firmly. “Everything else—every word, every touch—was truth itself.”
“I laid my body and soul bare to you,” she said, her voice stronger now and her eyes flashing. “And you lied the whole time. You lied about something as fundamental as who you are.”
“But I didn’t. With you, Prue, I was the truest version of myself—the version the world never cared to see. With you, Prue, I am the man I could be if given the chance. The name was a lie, one started long before I met you, and one I dared not reveal when you had no other protector.”
He had left her speechless. Breathless. There was more for him to say.
“I love you, Prudence,” he declared with a crack in his voice. “I, John Roark, upstart footman, love you. I want to marry you.”
“Ha!”
The sound of shocked amusement burst from her lips. Knife in the heart, that “Ha.”
Of course the lovely, well-bred Miss Payton would say “ha!” at the prospect of marriage to a servant.
“I know you, Prudence, in a way no one else does. I know who I am, too. Don’t you think I haven’t been completely tortured knowing that I can never marry the woman I love? Don’t you think it didn’t kill me keeping this secret from you? I am painfully, achingly aware of my deception and how society and prejudice stand between us and some sort of happiness. I know it,” he said bitterly. “I just hope that love is stronger than everything holding us apart.”
“I feel . . .” She glanced away, and sighed, and whispered, “I feel used again.”
He wanted to be sick. Nevertheless, he persisted. “The truth is—”
“The truth? Really? Now?”
“The truth is, I love you,” he said, gazing into her eyes, unflinching. “All of you. I know you, Prudence. And I am only telling you this now because I want you to know that you are loved fully and completely for who you are—the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful. I am so sorry that this lie came between us, but without it, we would have never known each other, so I cannot bring myself to regret it completely. It will haunt me until my dying day that I am not enough for you. I came tonight, Prudence, to keep my promise. And to make sure that you know that you are loved.”