by Maya Rodale
This particular morning, the gents and their sons—and some daughters—were off in Roark’s study, plotting more machines. There was talk of an Analytical Engine, which would perform even more complex calculations. Meanwhile, the ladies and their daughters were in the drawing room with pots of tea, along with plates of biscuits and pastries, fresh strawberries, and clotted cream.
“How is Caroline faring at Lady Penelope’s?” Prudence asked, inquiring after Emma’s daughter, who’d just begun at the school.
“I have already received missives from her teachers, who are concerned that she is exhausted in class after staying up late reading ‘tawdry and inappropriate literature,’ ” Emma replied.
“Did someone say my name?” Caroline barely looked up from the book that lay open in her lap, which was absorbing nearly all of her attention.
“Like mother like daughter,” Prudence quipped.
“What are you reading?” Olivia asked.
“The Mad Baron,” Caroline replied, to the groans of the three mothers.
“She’s also beginning to write her own stories,” Emma declared. “Romances.”
“You must be so proud,” Olivia replied with a grin. “But not as proud as I am of Miranda.”
The three former wallflowers focused their attentions upon Miranda, whose pale blond hair had been awkwardly cropped short by her own hand because it kept getting in the way of climbing trees, dramatically reenacting the battle of Waterloo with her brothers, and otherwise being the most unladylike young lady in the history of England.
Presently, Miranda was indulging in an unladylike number of scones, and her mother—who had been raised to embroider, pour tea perfectly, and paint watercolors of floral arrangements—delighted in her little hoyden.
“I am so excited for your exhibition, Olivia,” Prudence said. “I have a new gown and everything.”
“I am so nervous!” Olivia said. “And I have no idea what to wear.”
“Are there really nudes?” Emma asked bluntly.
“No,” Olivia replied, dejected. “Phinn would never allow my portraits of him to be seen publicly. My exhibit should feature my landscapes of Yorkshire.”
“Remember how vehemently we opposed your match to Radcliffe and your having to live in such a remote location?”
“Shhh . . . ,” Olivia said. “I don’t want to give Miranda any more ideas. She has enough already.”
“Mama . . .” A little girl with reddish-brown hair and sparkling blue eyes tugged on Prudence’s sleeve.
“What is it, Samantha?”
“Charlotte and I have a performance prepared.”
“Well, let’s see it,” Prudence said.
“You must purchase tickets first,” Samantha declared.
“Takes after her father,” Prue murmured. Roark had displayed a marvelous ability to make money, which kept their growing family comfortable. Meanwhile, Emma, Olivia, and Prue dug in their reticules for coins and scrawled IOUs on scraps of paper, which were promptly pocketed by Samantha.
Charlotte was a little more reserved than her older sister, but she still possessed an unshakable confidence in herself. In fact, she could be rather stubborn. Prudence never chided either of her daughters about being more agreeable or less outspoken or just . . . less. She knew what that felt like, and she never wanted her own daughters to feel so diminished.
Thus, they commanded the attention of the guests in the drawing room and put on a performance of an original mishmash of fairy tales in which at least three different heroines lived happily ever after. After a thunderous round of applause, the three women formerly known as “London’s Least Likely” exchanged conspiratorial looks.
“Shall we?” Emma inquired with a lift of her brow.
“I’ll fetch the writing materials,” Prudence said. “Olivia, you still have the best handwriting.”
“Don’t forget the sherry,” Olivia added.
“Now, where were we?” Emma asked.
“We were still debating the title,” Prudence said. “Advice To Young Ladies From Three Wallflowers or What Every Young Lady Should Know: Advice From The Wicked Wallflowers.”
The former wallflowers and their daughters put the matter to vote, and the title was quickly decided.
“Now, onward to the book itself,” Olivia said. “I distinctly remember writing the first few chapters.”
“According to this list of contents we drafted, we are onto chapter four: Don’t Be Scared Even When You Are Scared.”
From there, the trio composed the chapter aloud based upon their own experiences. Each of them had received the perfect, quintessential ladies’ education from a very respectable school and teachers who’d meant well. However, each of them had found their own education lacking in very distinct ways.
Prudence was resolved that chapter five would be When Not To Be a Lady. She and Olivia would share their experiences of how the strict rules of “ladylike behavior” had such devastating consequences. Meanwhile, Miranda availed herself of another scone and didn’t hold the teapot properly when pouring for herself, and the world did not end.
Emma’s favorite chapter had been Adventure Is Not Just for Books.
“Oh! I forgot to mention something!” Prudence exclaimed. “I had tea with Lady Northbourne—”
“—Dear Annabelle! I love her column,” Olivia said.
“As we all do,” Emma added.
“She loves the idea of our ladies’ guide and mentioned it to Knightly. He has agreed to publish it for us. When we finish it.”
“You might have led with that bit of news, Prudence,” Emma remarked dryly, but she was smiling all the same.
“I vow my wits are scattered with this wee one,” Prudence said, rubbing her belly affectionately.
“That is utterly fantastic news,” Olivia said. “Though not completely surprising. We do know that he’ll publish anything.”
“Not anything. He turned down Lady Katherine’s memoirs entitled Queen Bee.”
“Ugh,” Emma said, rolling her eyes. Olivia did, too, even though ladies did not roll their eyes.
“We must keep working. The husbands will return soon.”
For the next hour—and during many other sessions—the former wallflowers sipped sherry and composed a conduct guide for young ladies, full of all the information they wished they had learned before they’d embarked on the great husband hunt, the marriage mart, and the wide, wide world. The book was dedicated to their daughters, who half-listened as their mothers wrote, discussed, and reminisced.
Their day’s work concluded shortly after the arrival of their husbands. The families then embarked on a picnic.
“Remember our romantic picnic, darling?” Radcliffe asked Olivia, who laughed at the memory of that disastrous encounter.
“I believe that took place at the gazebo I constructed for my Emma,” Ashbrooke boasted. “Remember that, dear wife?”
His dear wife blushed furiously, indicating that she did, indeed, remember.
Roark and Prudence had plenty of lovely memories, too, but they paused to create one more as the others walked ahead, leading a gaggle of children. Under the shade of an apple tree, he pulled his wife into his arms, and she melted against him. He had never tired of gazing into her warm brown eyes, and she loved how, after all these years, his blue eyes still sparkled when he looked at her.
“Remember that time I kissed you clandestinely in—”
“The stables? Yes,” Prue said, laughing, remembering their very first, very brief kiss at the Coach & Horses Inn, in a town whose name they still weren’t quite sure of.
“And—” Roark continued, but his clever wife beat him to it.
“On the side of the road somewhere in Wiltshire? Yes,” Prudence said. That had been her first real kiss. Felt-it-from-her-head-to-her-toes kind of kiss. Changed-something-forever kind of kiss. No, she had not forgotten it.
Neither had Roark. A man didn’t easily forget his last first kiss.
�
�And that time I kissed you under the apple tree?” Roark asked, pulling her even closer. She pressed her hand against his chest and leaned against him in a way that suggested a loving and easy intimacy.
For a moment, Prudence was confused. “Which time?”
“This time,” he said with a grin and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. He lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss that was no less sweet, or passionate, or yearning than their very first or all the ones in between.
“Something for you to write about in your book,” he murmured.
“Perfect kisses and happily ever after,” Prudence sighed. “Aye, I can write about that.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On fact, fiction, and liberties taken . . .
THE DIFFERENCE ENGINE, which features prominently in my three Wallflower novels, was real. It was the invention of Englishman Charles Babbage in 1821. He and his partner, Joseph Clement, spent years and invested a fortune in their attempts to build it. While known as the inventor of the first computer, Babbage is also known for failing to build his machines.
The Difference Engine wasn’t successfully constructed until 1991 (just in time for the two-hundredth anniversary of Babbage’s birth), when a dedicated team from The Science Museum in London endeavored to build it once and for all from the original plans—to finally discover if it would work. (It did! Brilliant!) I am completely indebted to Doron Swade’s book The Difference Engine: The Quest to Build the First Computer. It was a marvelous and riveting account of Babbage’s life and the modern-day quest to build the engine using Babbage’s original plans.
Babbage provided the inspiration for the Duke of Ashbrooke (The Wicked Wallflower), and Clement the inspiration for Lord Radcliffe’s character (Wallflower Gone Wild). While a few people did recognize the potential for the engine, Roark’s character is not based on anyone in particular.
I have made my heroes successful in their endeavors to build and produce the Difference Engine because it’s my historical world and I said so. Another liberty I took: the Great Exhibition did not actually take place until 1851, but I thought my heroes needed their own equivalent of Lady Penelope’s Ball.
As I embarked on a series of interconnected historical and contemporary romance novels, I was deeply pleased to learn that the computer—of all things!—could be a link between Regency London and modern-day New York City. The hero of my corresponding contemporary series, The Bad Boy Billionaire, is a brilliant tech entrepreneur who, like so many men and women today, carry on the pioneering work of innovators like Babbage.
But an unfortunate link between the Regency era and our present day is the prevalence of sexual violence and the stigma and suffering of its victims. Though What a Wallflower Wants is a historical novel, it was influenced by the tragic and heartbreaking stories of sexual assault that are in the news far too frequently these days.
It’s a topic I have also explored in the contemporary counterpart, The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants. These contemporary romances feature the romance of Duke Austen (the bad boy billionaire) and Jane Sparks, a modern-day Wallflower who is “writing” the Wallflower novels based on her own experiences.
Regency readers know that to be caught in a “compromising position” is to find oneself proceeding immediately to the altar. It’s all quite romantic—unless it isn’t. In parts of the world today, women are still forced to marry their attackers to preserve “honor.” Or, just as horribly, they are murdered by their own families for some twisted notion of “honor.”
The alternative was—and tragically still too often is—to be considered “ruined” and face social ostracization, harassment, slut-shaming, blame, or not being believed. Many keep their assault a secret. Many are driven to suicide. None of this is okay.
Romance novels are an escape, a fantasy, a pleasure. But these novels are also inspiring and empowering, and they have the potential to change hearts and minds with portrayals of two individuals finding healing and happiness in love. I wrote this story to perhaps provide hope. And as with every romance novel I have written, I write the change I want to see: relationships based on mutual trust, respect, and love.
For more information about my novels, please visit www.mayarodale.com.
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There’s a story behind every story. . . .
Happily ever after is in reach for Duke and Jane . . . almost. Keep reading for an excerpt from
The Bad Boy Billionaire:
What a Girl Wants
The stunning conclusion to their whirlwind romance.
Bar Veloce, New York City
“THIS,” I SAID angrily, waving my iPhone. I wanted to slam this down on the table, like I had done with the paper invitation to my high school reunion earlier this summer. But I wasn’t about to risk breaking my iPhone over the Paperless Post invitation intruding upon my inbox.
I settled for firmly placing my phone on the bar. It just wasn’t the same.
Roxanna reached for it, her red manicure a sharp contrast against the black screen.
“No way!” I snatched it back. “I’m not falling for that again.”
Roxanna just grinned. “You’re welcome for setting you up with the love of your life.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, pursing my lips and fighting a smile. It was the polite thing to say, and I was always polite. I suppose I did owe her a thank-you for her prank Facebook post announcing an engagement between me and Duke Austen, infamously known as the Bad Boy Billionaire. At the time of said announcement, he and I had met (and kissed) just once. That didn’t stop us from a sham engagement, which led to a secret romance. Now we were really, truly in love.
“What is it this time?” Roxanna asked, flipping her red hair over her shoulder. She was perched on a bar stool, sipping bourbon on the rocks. I took the seat next to her and sipped from the chardonnay she’d gone ahead and ordered for me.
“This is the invitation to the party celebrating the IPO of Duke’s start-up.”
“How fabulous. Where is it?”
“That’s not the point. It doesn’t even matter, because it’s at the same time on the same night as my high school reunion.”
Roxanna raised one eyebrow. It was one of the traits of hers that I was jealous of, in addition to her carefree attitude, her amazing alcohol tolerance, which allowed her to drink copious amounts of whiskey without getting ridiculously drunk, and the ability to talk herself into restaurant tables without a reservation.
“Are you actually torn between which event to attend?” Roxanna asked incredulously. “The hottest party in the city, celebrating the hottest business launch possibly of all time, with free booze and fascinating people. Oh, and your hot boyfriend. Or a party in an old gymnasium with the same old bores you’ve known for half your life. They’ll probably just want to talk about their kids.”
“It’ll be on the terrace at the Milford Country Club,” I replied, but unenthusiastically.
“Oh,” Roxanna sighed. “The country club. Someone get the velvet rope to keep out the riffraff.”
I sighed. “I know Duke’s party will be more fabulous. But why do I have this angst about missing my stupid high school reunion? I could just go home and hit the pizza parlor on a Friday night, and it’d be the same conversations with the same people.”
“Might I point out that you don’t ever go back to the pizza parlor on a Friday night? But I get it, Jane. This night is like some sort of finish line you have to cross.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That, and we had a deal. I would pretend to be his good-girl fiancée and keep him out of trouble. In return, he’d be my hot and successful boyfriend on a night when I’d sorely need a confidence boost. But we can’t be in both places at the same time. And I held up my end of the bargain.”
“You could go alone,” Roxanna said, demonstrating that s
he was ballsier than me. “Since you do, in fact, have a hot successful boyfriend, not to mention your numerous best-selling books. You shouldn’t need the confidence boost, Jane. You’re fabulous already.”
“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “I know this is all silly.”
“Have you talked to Duke about it?”
“Of course not,” I replied. “That’s the mature, logical thing to do.”
“Are you not a mature, logical person?” Roxanna queried. I took a long sip of wine before answering.
“I am the kind of person so desperate for a date to my high school reunion that I faked a relationship.”
“Point taken,” Roxanna said before taking a sip of her bourbon.
My phone, still on the bar between us, buzzed and lit up with an incoming text message. I picked up the phone quickly in case it was something sexy from Duke. He was known to send Snapchats of himself without his shirt on or other flirtatious and naughty texts.
“Is that your bad boy billionaire lover?”
I frowned. “No, it’s Sam. He’s been texting me a lot lately. This one says, ‘How do you feel about second chances?’ ”
“Weird. Has he forgotten that you two broke up?”
“I have no idea what’s going on with Sam lately,” I said with a sigh. “He was up for these two jobs, and I’m not sure if he’s gotten them. I have no idea what’s up with him and Kate.”
“Your nemesis.”
“Grrrr.” I growled just thinking about Kate Abbott, who teased me all through high school and then, the minute Sam and I broke up, swooped in and claimed him. Not that I was too bothered about it these days. My breakup with Sam had nearly destroyed me, but already I could see that it was the best thing that could have happened.
“Are you going to answer him?” Roxanna asked.
“Maybe later.” I got rid of the text and looked back at my email. The invitation was still there, awaiting an RSVP. “I have to talk to Duke about this party. But he’s got a big trip to San Francisco coming up. Might not be a good time.”