by Maya Rodale
“A gambler, are you?” Miss Merryweather asked with the disapproving look of a temperance-minded matron, which oddly made him grin.
“You could say that,” he answered. The extent of his gambling was possibly unparalleled. This was also not something he was prepared to let be known.
“You’re one of those,” she said. “I should have known.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are the lords that tend to their estates,” she explained. “And then the ones that gamble them away.”
And then there were the ones, like him, that—John didn’t even finish that thought on the off chance that Miss Merryweather possessed mind-reading capabilities. He didn’t fit into her either/or view of lords, but he wasn’t about to enlighten her.
So he just grinned and asked, “Can’t a rogue have it all?”
“Where is your estate?”
“Yorkshire,” he said automatically. “Castlemore Court.”
“What’s it like?” she asked.
“A stately redbrick home with large windows that make the interior rooms seem airy and light,” John answered, seeing his old home in his mind’s eye like he’d only been there yesterday. “The grounds are lovely, with extensive gardens. It’s everything you would expect of a viscount’s country home.”
“That sounds lovely. I have always lived in London.”
“I’m looking forward to London. If this damned rain ever stops,” he said. “Care to wager how long until the sun comes out?”
They both laughed. She had such a lovely, lilting laugh.
“When the thunder started, I thought it would be just a quick summer storm,” she said. “Knowing my luck, it’ll carry on for days, possibly weeks, bringing great floods and extensive devastation.”
“If that’s your luck, it’s a good thing you met me, Miss Merryweather.”
“And why is that?” She tilted her head, curiously. It was adorable.
“I’m on a winning streak,” he said, gazing into her eyes. They were a velvety, dark brown, fringed with dark, spiky lashes. There was so much emotion in her eyes, more than he could begin to comprehend. He could get lost in her eyes. “Perhaps my good luck will rub off on you.”
She smiled ruefully and said, “Or I might end your winning streak. My apologies in advance.”
AFTER SUPPER THEY retired to chairs before the fire. Castleton’s conversational needs were apparently satisfied for the evening; he was absorbed by a thick book. She was curious about it but did not wish to disturb him.
Not wanting to be alone, Prudence took the chair beside Castleton and stared into the fire, basking in its warmth. So much had happened in just a few days, and her heart and mind had hardly settled from it all. There were so many questions that she frustratingly could not obtain answers to. What had happened to her maid? What about Cecil and the others in the mail coach? Had that highwayman been apprehended, or did he roam free in the countryside?
Her gaze fell on Castleton’s boots. Shiny. She dared a sideways glance at him. Anything was possible, she supposed, including Castleton’s being the highwayman. But something didn’t quite add up to her, for Castleton had been nothing but kind and solicitous to her, which seemed at odds with the sort of man that robbed carriages in the dead of the night.
This was the sort of ridiculous notion that Emma would entertain, spurred on by her sentimental novels.
Instead, Prudence resumed fretting about her maid, and her fellow travelers, and Cecil, and if Cecil even deserved her worry. They had to be fine.
Just as she was fine.
She was a young lady alone in the world with no prospects for her future. There was a small part of Prudence that was quite content for it to never stop raining so she might stay here in this inn so she didn’t have to return to London and face her failures on the marriage mart.
She could remain here. With Castleton.
Prudence glanced over at him again. He was still reading his book. There was something nice about a man who was absorbed by a good book. There was something pleasant about simply sitting quietly beside each other in a comfortable silence, as if they were an old married couple.
Is this what it felt like?
Prudence dared another glance his way.
No, if they were an old married couple she surely wouldn’t feel these butterflies in her belly. She wouldn’t be terrified and yet curious about kissing him. She wouldn’t have memories of that bad thing smothering any lovely, sparkling feeling she might have when he looked at her and smiled.
The rain would stop eventually. At that time, she would have to do something—either beg Rutherford to take her on as an indefinite lodger with no hope of paying her bill or return to London.
Her gaze drifted away from the crackling fire toward the bin of logs, kindling, and old sheets of newspaper. One sheet stuck above the rim, the masthead unmistakable: The London Weekly.
Suddenly Prudence felt a pang of homesickness. She missed the town house she shared with her aunt, Lady Dare, a fabulous woman in lovely gowns, strong perfume, exquisite jewelry, witty and amusing friends. Prudence missed her quiet bedroom overlooking the garden and being guarded by a bevy of reliable servants. Above all, she missed Emma and Olivia. With her friends, Prudence always felt some measure of happiness and peace, and was able, for hours at a time, to forget about The Beast.
That is, until her friends had fallen in love and married and now only wanted to do ridiculous things like complain about their handsome, attentive, besotted husbands. Didn’t they know?
They didn’t know. Prudence had never told them. What if they didn’t believe her? What if they told someone? What if they looked at her with pity in their eyes? It would be unbearable. Which is why she’d never said a word.
With a sigh, Prudence picked up the old issue of The London Weekly, hoping for a distraction from her thoughts and news of her friends and acquaintances back home.
“Are you really going to read that rubbish?” Castleton asked, surprising her with how quickly he’d noticed her actions. She thought he’d been absorbed in his book.
“I haven’t anything else to read.”
“This book is excellent. You can have a turn with it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take it from you. Besides, I wish to catch up on town gossip. Perhaps there is news of my friends.”
Castleton stared at her for a moment. Had she said something wrong? Then he nodded. She decided to ignore the odd moment and returned to the newssheet.
She skipped over the front page of parliamentary reports. As was her habit, she skimmed over the wedding column, “Miss Harlow’s Marriage In High Life.” It was too painful to read about everyone else’s weddings, so she blocked it out as much as possible. Skipping ahead, she finally found what she sought:
“Fashionable Intelligence By A Lady of Distinction”
This is one of the duller seasons in memory (as I seem to write every season), however it is livened up by the arrival of the Mad Baron and his disastrous courtship of Lady Olivia, London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal—who defied expectations by doing exactly that. Now married, they seem to be setting aside their former rivalry. By all accounts, they appeared most entranced with each other at the opera, and a lady’s glove was even carelessly left behind in their box. This author dare not compose any more.
This newspaper wasn’t too old, then. Three weeks, perhaps, or a month? After Emma and Olivia had found love and become utterly, revoltingly besotted with their perfect husbands, Prudence had become convinced she ought to join Lady Dare in Bath. Besides, she had no prospects in London.
And really, it would hurt too much to watch her friends move on without her.
She was happy for them. Truly. Honestly.
But she was also lonely. And she had counted on them to be lonely with her.
Prudence kept reading.
This author has learned that Mr. Benedict Chase has distinguished himself in the cavalry. And upon leave, he did not
visit his wife, Lady Katherine, who is rumored to be pursuing an affair with the notorious rake Lord Gerard.
Wasn’t that just delicious? Emma had almost married Benedict and . . . well, it was a long story. Lady Katherine had plagued the lot of them from their days at Lady Penelope’s. Some say that she had married Benedict out of spite and desperation.
Prudence noted that she was at least married.
There is a dearth of dancing partners for the young ladies in London. It seems all the gents have fled London for the town of Pangbourne, where the boxing match of the century is taking place. Expect fortunes to be won—and lost.
Like most young ladies, Prudence had little to no interest in boxing matches. She kept reading.
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—
The handsome viscount what?!
Prudence turned to the next page to learn more about the man beside her. She was confronted by a page with theater reviews, a “Dear Annabelle” advice column, and advertisements. The page containing the rest had vanished. Oh lud, she had the worst luck ever!
“What is the matter?” Castleton asked. “Why are you wrestling with the newspaper?”
Prudence looked at the fire. Glared at it, really. It had probably devoured the page she wished to read.
“I am not wrestling with it,” she explained. “I am simply vexed because the page I seek is missing.”
Castleton’s expression darkened. “Oh? And which page is that?”
“The page that mentions you,” she said pointedly, then held her breath awaiting his reaction. It was anticlimactic; he muttered something about gossip columns being rubbish and returned to his book.
“It says you are a handsome viscount. Do you think that is rubbish?” Prudence asked pertly. He frowned. Then reluctantly grinned. “I thought so,” she replied smugly.
“What else does it say?”
Prudence read the Lady of Distinction’s report to him.
“Where did you go on your tour?” she asked.
“The usual spots,” he said with a shrug. “Paris, Italy . . .”
“I wish I had traveled more,” she said with a sigh.
“Why didn’t you?”
“It’s not done for ladies to travel on their own,” Prudence answered. “And my aunt doesn’t care to travel very far.”
“No wine, no travel to the Continent . . . poor deprived girl,” Castleton remarked. Prudence pursed her lips. He had no idea how limited the options were for a young lady clinging desperately to her reputation, with nearly all hopes of matrimony vanished. A lack of wine and travel abroad was the least of it.
“What else does it say?” he asked.
“That is all. The next page is missing,” Prudence said forlornly.
“Pity, that,” Castleton said, then he returned to his book. She considered asking him more questions, but he seemed riveted by the volume in his hands and uninterested in further conversation on “rubbish gossip rags” with her. Besides, there was no point in becoming better acquainted with him. Nothing could come of it.
But what if something could happen? Honestly, she was going mad from staying indoors for so long. This endless rain was turning her wits and good sense to mush. Because it was absurd that something should happen between her and Lord Castleton.
Prudence took another sly glance at him. Then he caught her eye. Her heart thudded in her chest. Was it really so absurd? Or was something already developing between them?
She was aware that the hour was growing late, darkness had long since fallen, and she was alone with a gentleman. Her instinct was to flee. For once she considered staying.
Not for a moment did John consider staying. John was surprised to find himself here—he had expected Newgate. Make no mistake, the situation was grave. He had made a promise to the woman he loved.
Staying—voluntarily or otherwise—was not an option.
It was soon apparent that the jig was up, the party had concluded, the lucky streak was absolutely over. Unless . . .
Did he have one last trick up his sleeve?
He had to do something—SOMETHING. His plans were spectacularly, unsalvageably ruined. But what to do . . . he didn’t know. He couldn’t think now, with an angry peer of the realm giving him the haughty stare of disappointment and death. He didn’t know what was worse. He didn’t even care.
The clock was ticking and there was somewhere he had to be. At some point in their mad adventures, Prudence had become the most important thing in his life. He had to get to her now. She would be waiting, having a massive crisis of faith. He would not be the one to ruin that. He couldn’t have her wondering what had become of him, the man to whom she’d opened her heart and who had then disappeared when he had promised to be there, holding her hand.
His attention shifted back to the demanding man before him.
John was forced to consider what would be worse: if she always wondered what had become of him, or if she knew the truth?
Chapter 7
The next day
Six days before the Great Exhibition
ANOTHER DAY OF rainfall. Another day spent fretting about Cecil and the rest of her passengers in the mail coach, wondering whatever became of the highwayman and trying to consider what she would do with her life once the rain inevitably stopped. Return to London—or roam the countryside indefinitely?
And if she did return, however would she explain her extended absence? These matters plagued her, and she had no good answer. It was almost a relief that the rain continued, providing more time to develop a plan.
She and Castleton dined together again. Afterward, in the corner of the parlor, the Hammersmith parents were having a devil of a time keeping their children from running laps around the room while hollering at top volume. To appease them, Annie blew the dust off the piano keys and began to play a lively tune.
The children started to dance. The elder ones seemed to know the steps; the younger ones just flailed about wildly, vaguely moving to the music. Prudence found it to be adorable. She couldn’t look away, though it pained her to remember what she would never have. A husband who, like Mr. Hammersmith, would bow before her, kiss her outstretched hand, and embrace her for a dance in a little country inn. A family of her own, like the Hammersmith boys and girls, who merrily danced in circles around their parents.
“Would you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Merryweather?” Castleton’s voice was low, hinting at something more than mere friendship. She felt a tremor down her spine, and, oddly, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. In fact, she felt the mad urge to say yes. But then she imagined what would come next: his hand low on her back, her hand in his. She’d feel trapped and it would remind her of—
“Oh, no,” she said in a rush. “I can’t.”
“You cannot dance?” He lifted one brow, obviously skeptical.
“Very well, I can dance. But I do not. Ever.” She spoke firmly, which she found remarkable, given all the little tremors and quakes—not altogether terrible ones—she experienced at the thought of dancing with him. Any pleasure at the small triumph of feeling something other than fear at the prospect of a waltz was tinged by knowledge that she couldn’t share it with anyone, because no one knew why she hadn’t danced since her first season.
“I find it hard to believe that you do not dance,” Castleton said. “You’re obviously a well-bred girl, and everyone knows that well-bred girls have spent at least two-eighths of their lives learning how to dance.”
“Two-eighths?”
“Two-eighths is spent fretting over fashions,” he explained, and she smiled. “Another three-eighths are spent gossiping and talking about men. The rest are lessons, eating, sleeping.”
Prue laughed out loud. He certainly had the right of it. And he knew it, judging by that grin of his.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said ch
armingly. His blue eyes sparkled at her, and for a moment, her heart did skip a beat. When her breath caught, it wasn’t because she was scared but because of the way he looked at her with a happy affection.
“You’re mad,” she whispered. Was she talking to him or herself?
“Dance with me, Miss Merryweather,” he murmured in the devastating way of charming rakes the world over.
God, she wanted to. More than anything, Prudence wanted to be a girl who slipped her hand in his and allowed herself to be whirled around the drawing room. She longed to be the girl she was before. But her body had a memory of its own, and that held her back.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Beast. Would he ever ease his control over her?
“Just one dance. That is all. It won’t mean anything,” Castleton said. “Look, our companions are children. Mrs. and Mr. Hammersmith will act as chaperones. I promise I won’t get any ideas.”
She gazed up at him. Too bad she couldn’t explain why she was so hesitant.
“I can see you tapping your foot in time to the music, Miss Merryweather. I beg you, don’t waste two-eighths of your life.”
Don’t waste two-eighths of your life.
The words, casually uttered just to cajole her, struck hard and struck suddenly. Prue felt the impact of it ricochet around her body, from her head to toes curling in her boots and everywhere else in between.
She was wasting her life, letting this fear hold her back.
It had been easy to pretend before that she hadn’t, but there was no denying it now. There was a handsome man before her who had shown her nothing but kindness, and all he wanted was a dance.
The truth was: she yearned in her heart of hearts to dance with him.
But The Beast—
She’d had enough of The Beast. He had taken her innocence and stripped her future of possibilities. But perhaps she could just claim this one dance, once. It was just a waltz, nothing more.
“All right,” she said softly.
The last time she’d placed her hand in another man’s it had been the beginning of the end. But Castleton was not The Beast. He clasped her hand lightly. She hardly even felt his hand on her lower back, though she was aware of it. If she needed to, she could break free.
