by Maya Rodale
It wasn’t just the silk or the sparkling gemstones or the pretty new dress. It was the pink flush on her cheeks of a woman in love, the coy smile of a woman with a secret, the lips of a woman who had been kissed, a sparkle in her eye because she was loved and she knew it.
This wallflower had blossomed.
But her smile faded when the butler, Farnesworth, interrupted her waiting.
“Would you like some refreshment whilst you wait, Miss Payton?”
Prudence glanced at the clock on the mantel—a quarter past eight. It was fashionable for one to be fifteen minutes late. He would be here momentarily.
“I would love a glass of sherry,” Prudence told the butler, thinking it would soothe her nerves while she waited these last few, anxious, impatient, eager moments before he arrived and they kissed before setting off for the ball, where she would show them all that she wasn’t the one failure in one hundred years.
Thirty minutes later, she had taken numerous turns around the drawing room while imagining all the possible reasons why Castleton should be nearly an hour late. Perhaps the horse had thrown a shoe, or the carriage wheel had broken, or he had gotten lost, or stuck behind an outrageously slow-moving vehicle. There might have been a carriage accident, or a fire, or . . .
She hoped he wasn’t hurt.
Or did she? Because if he wasn’t hurt and he wasn’t here, then she would have to face the fact that another man had disappointed her yet again. And this time, she was in love. . . .
Farnesworth returned. It was a particularly awkward moment when the butler looked at her with pity.
“Would you care for something to eat, Miss Payton? Another glass of sherry, perhaps?”
Prudence had visions of how the evening would unfold if she said yes. She would eat alone in the drawing room, wondering what had become of Castleton and imagining all her classmates celebrating at the ball. Another glass of sherry might dull the ache of feeling forgotten, but it was more likely to muddle her wits and reduce her to a weeping mess. Then, after a lonely meal and tipsy from drink, she’d probably just give up, remove the dress that had made her feel so beautiful, and crawl into bed, alone.
In the morning, she would wake up feeling like a coward. She had already wasted too many days living in fear and making every effort to avoid anything remotely uncomfortable or scary. She’d had good reason, but enough was enough.
She thought of the words Castleton had whispered fiercely to her: You have survived the worst thing that could happen to you. And you have carried on. You are stronger than you know.
If Prudence was strong and courageous, she would go to the ball. And she was—Prue had survived a highway robbery, walked for miles on her own, and survived a violent assault only to overcome the hate in her heart to fall in love.
Aye, she would not wait for Castleton, who might or might not come. (He had promised! Where was he?) She would go to the ball and see her friends—lud, how she missed them! And she would catch up with her schoolmates. Perhaps she wouldn’t spend the entire evening languishing like a wallflower—surely Ashbrooke and Radcliffe would dance with her.
It wouldn’t be the night she had dreamt of, but it would still be a triumph for her.
“No, thank you, Farnesworth,” she said. “But I would like the carriage brought around, please.”
Lady Penelope’s Ball
This was the moment she had been dreading ever since that invitation had arrived earlier this summer. Lady Penelope requests the pleasure of your attendance . . . Pleasure? Ha! Prudence stood in the grand foyer waiting for the butler to announce her. Her stomach had worked itself into a gnarled mess of a knot. Even though she had arrived late, there was still a long receiving line, giving her plenty of time to fret.
Where was Castleton?
Why had he not come?
What if something had gone wrong? What if something hadn’t?
Was he breaking his promise?
Was she a fool to have trusted him?
How many times did she have to learn that men never arrive just in time, at the very last moment, to dramatically rescue a girl from whatever disaster she faced? First Dudley, then Cecil. Now Castleton?
No, she couldn’t quite believe it. But the evidence was swiftly mounting.
She may have mustered her courage in the comforting surroundings of her drawing room, but now she felt her determination slipping away. Her knees felt weak and her stomach ached from nervousness, but she was proud of herself for attending. She was still terrified and awkward and unsure of a thousand things, but those emotions were no longer ruling her life.
Under the silk and chiffon folds of her gown, her feet tapped anxiously on the parquet floor.
Perhaps he’ll arrive soon, she hoped, even though she knew better.
Dear God, please let him arrive soon, she prayed, even though she knew better.
“Lord and Lady Crawford,” the butler declared.
Prudence inched closer. Her palms were damp under her satin gloves.
Where was he? Castleton had promised. She had believed him. Even now she couldn’t quite fathom that he would leave her to face this night alone. This night, in which she was confirmed as the one unwed graduate of Lady Penelope’s class of 1820 and the only girl to fail at her one goal in life.
“Lord and Lady Mulberry” the butler declared.
Lord and Lady Mulberry strolled into the ballroom, arm in arm.
Oh God, it was her turn now. The butler looked at her expectantly. Should she tell him Miss Payton or Lady Castleton? The matter was no longer merely a name but some epic dilemma about her identity, her faith in Castleton, God and Men, and her confidence in herself.
Did she believe in Castleton?
Did she still have faith in love and happily ever after and heroes that arrived in the pivotal moment? Or had Dudley so thoroughly broken her that she was going to lose all hope?
The butler cleared his throat. He was waiting, unaware of her massive dilemma. People were growing anxious behind her—they wanted to drink champagne, and dance, and gossip with their friends.
She had to give a name now. She had to decide this very minute if she still believed in happily ever after.
“Lady Castleton,” she whispered to the butler in a fleeting moment of hope and faith.
“Lady Castleton,” the butler announced. Loudly. A few people nearby turned to look. Upon seeing her, their laughter began and moved through the crowd in a slow ripple.
Prudence had made an art of not being noticed in the hopes that she would avoid exactly this moment. Everyone was staring—except for the people poking their friends and urging them to look at her. Then they all laughed. Why?
What was so funny? Prudence held her head high and refused to cry.
She could see them talking about her, whispering behind their fans. What were they saying?
Her palms were damp beneath her gloves, and there was a foreboding ache in her belly. Mechanically, she stepped forward into the ballroom and began to weave through the crowd, searching for her friends.
The curious stares and the hissing whispers followed her. She overheard snatches of conversations:
“Lady Nanson . . .”
“Castleton returned days ago . . .”
“. . . thought she was American.”
“Prudence! You’re here!” Emma cried. Olivia was with her. Radcliffe and Ashbrooke were deep in conversation nearby but looked up and seemed pleased to see her.
At the sight of her friends, Prudence let out a deep breath she hadn’t been aware of holding in. Leaving London—and even lying to her friends—had been the right thing to do. But she had missed them, and she was scared, and they were here. They were home.
“We were afraid you wouldn’t come!” Olivia admonished. Prue gave a little smile, not daring to tell her she almost hadn’t. In fact, she almost wished she’d been back in her room at the Coach & Horses rather than being the subject of whispers here.
“Where is he?” O
livia asked immediately. Prudence’s smile faltered. She had written to her friends promising to introduce them to someone. Right. Well done, Prudence. Where was he? And was it wrong to hope that he was lying comatose in a ditch?
“We cannot wait to meet your husband, Lady Nanson,” Emma said with a wink.
“Cecil?” What the devil were they talking about—and how did they know about Cecil? Prue looked from Emma to Olivia and back again. They were both beaming, idiotically so. Their happiness at her finally, finally having married was at once wonderful and tragic.
“We heard you married at his estate by special license,” Olivia said, eyes shining.
“It sounds like such a whirlwind romance. Was it? Tell us everything,” Emma gushed.
Prudence looked around for a chair. She needed to sit down. If news had reached the ton that she was Lady Nanson and she’d just announced herself as Lady Castleton . . .
Prudence now looked around for a place to discreetly cast up her accounts. There was nowhere, so she closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the unmitigated disaster unfolding. She was jolted back to reality by Olivia.
“News just reached his parents this afternoon, and I just heard about it in the ladies’ retiring room,” Olivia said.
“Didn’t I tell you we would all be married and in love by tonight?” Emma said with a happy sigh. “I do love being right. I think it suits me.”
Prudence didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
“Where is he? Do you see him?” Olivia asked, having noticed Prudence glancing around, wondering if she would see Cecil. Or Castleton. Oh, any one of her two fake husbands.
Unfortunately, Prudence spied Dudley instead.
Her instinct was to turn and flee, like a frightened little lamb with a wolf approaching, openmouthed, sharp teeth glistening. That would just encourage him to chase, wouldn’t it? She had run around ballrooms for years avoiding him, and then he had somehow found her in a small village miles from London. There was just no running away from him, which meant she would have to stand her ground and fight.
Stop looking so bloody scared all the time.
She drew strength from Castleton’s words, as if he’d been right behind her, whispering in her ear, instead of echoing in her memory. Why wasn’t he here?
Even as Dudley stalked through the ballroom toward her, Prudence forced herself to stand tall and proud, as if she wasn’t utterly terrified.
His face was a revolting mess of cuts and bruises, made all the more menacing by the look in his eyes: he was thinking of before, and doing it again, she could tell.
Her confidence wavered as Dudley came to stand before her. He had the power to destroy her, and they both knew it. This was the moment of confrontation she had feared, and she was on her own for it.
Had Castleton anticipated this moment when she would have to face the devil on her own? Is that why he had prepared her for this moment? Had he known all along that he wouldn’t be with her?
“Miss Payton, we meet again,” Dudley said with a smile that did nothing to enhance his gruesome face or ease the cold knot of fear in her belly. “Or should I say Lady Nanson? Or Lady Castleton?”
It so happened that there was something worse than being unwed for Lady Penelope’s Ball: being unwed with rumors that she was married to two different men.
“I thought Lord Castleton only just returned from America,” Emma said, looking quite puzzled. “With his wife. How would you have met him, Prue?”
“Did your friends not hear you announced as Lady Castleton?” Dudley asked.
Prudence ignored him, her attention fixed upon what Emma had said. Castleton hadn’t mentioned anything about just returning from America. That was odd. It seemed the sort of thing one would bring up.
Also the sort of thing someone might bring up: a wife.
How did her friends know all of this? How did she not? It was taking everything in her—every ounce of strength, every last nerve—to remain upright.
“I thought you married Lord Nanson,” Olivia said, furrowing her brow. “Prudence, what on earth is going on?”
“Where is Lord Nanson?” Emma asked. “Or Lord Castleton?”
“Castleton is not here this evening,” Dudley said smugly. He obviously knew something and was taking a perverse pleasure in lording it over her. “In fact, I’m quite certain he has been indisposed and won’t be attending.”
What had happened to him? Where was he? What had Dudley done to him?
There were too many questions, too many little things that were not adding up. She was aware, vaguely, of her world beginning to fall apart. There would be vicious rumors about her . . . Castleton was gone . . . had he lied to her from the start?
“Since he is not here,” Dudley continued, “you must be in want of a partner, and I hear a waltz starting. Would you care to dance with me?”
When, as a young girl, Prudence would make a mistake with her lessons or get into a spot of trouble, her governess, Miss Georgette, would always say kindly, “Dear Prue, it’s not a mistake if you learn from it.”
Needless to say, Dudley was a mistake she wished she hadn’t made, and God help her, she wasn’t going to throw away her safety and happiness because of a stupid rule of etiquette. Again.
Dudley held out his hand with a sick grin on his face, his malicious intentions too clear to her. Prudence remembered Castleton instructing her not to give him an opportunity to grab her. So she kept her hands behind her back and said, loud and clear, “No.”
Not No, thank you or I’m afraid I mustn’t or any of the other delicate words and phrases that might soften the impact of the refusal. She simply said NO, bluntly rejecting his invitation.
“I beg your pardon?” Dudley reddened.
Gentlemen’s dance invitations were never refused, especially by a wallflower on her fourth season who might or might not have two husbands but who was certainly a person of scandal and ridicule.
But Prudence knew there was something worse than being unwed on her fourth season, and it was having her innocence taken against her will, living each day with fear in her heart, and not knowing love.
“I said no,” Prudence said, her voice stronger now. Castleton wasn’t here, but she could imagine him encouraging her. Emma and Olivia stepped in closer to her, forming a wall of wallflowers. Ashbrooke and Radcliffe stepped close, towering behind her, ready to fight this battle for her.
“You’re a very rude young woman,” Dudley said sharply.
Prudence lifted her chin and said, “And you cannot truthfully call yourself a gentleman.”
Someone nearby gasped, but Prudence couldn’t look to see who—she was far too distracted by the blood rushing to Dudley’s head, the pure hatred emanating from his eyes, and the barely contained fury in his body. She had angered him.
Don’t be scared even when you’re scared. Don’t be scared even when you’re scared. Don’t be scared even when you’re scared.
Even though Prudence wanted to run, she stood her ground. In some way, Castleton was here after all. And she wasn’t alone: her friends stood behind her. A crowd of guests, including Lady Penelope herself, began to gather, watching this scene unfold.
“What is happening, Prue?” Emma asked, keeping a warning gaze on Dudley.
“You didn’t tell them, did you?” Dudley sneered. Then, leaning in close, he whispered the most vile, viscious things in her ear. She felt his hot breath on her neck. The scent of wine and cigars on his breath took her back to that night. “They don’t know what happened between us years ago. For if they knew—if anyone knew—it’d be wedding bells for you and me. And I could have you as much as I wanted. Whenever I wanted. However I wanted. Wherever I wanted.”
Prudence didn’t think; she acted. She rammed her knee into Dudley’s groin, just as Castleton had taught her. Not expecting such a show of force, Dudley went down, swearing, gasping, clasping where she’d struck him.
Just for good measure, she struck upwards with the heel
of her hand, hitting Dudley solidly in the nose as he went down. There was the most wretched cracking sound, a garbled scream of pain and blood. Prudence paled at the sight of his blood on her new gloves.
“Where did you learn to do that, Prue?” Olivia asked in an awestruck whisper.
“Certainly not at Lady Penelope’s school,” Lady Penelope reprimanded.
Prudence looked up from the oddly pleasing and arresting sight of her tormenter writhing in agonies at her feet.
“You gave us an excellent education, Lady Penelope, but in some aspects it was insufficient,” Prudence replied.
The ballroom had fallen silent—even the orchestra had ceased.
Prudence lifted her gaze to all the shocked and curious faces staring at her.
That was when the screaming began. The sound of shattering glass rent through the room, and all hell broke loose.
Chapter 21
Number 24, Bruton Street
THE REAL LORD Castleton’s residence was a four-story home built of limestone, with large glass windows and a pitched slate roof. It quietly and impressively radiated wealth, power, and confidence, as did the viscount’s country estate, Castlemore Court. Both grand homes were the sort John never had a prayer of owning himself.
He was escorted into the real Lord Castleton’s study. It was a well-appointed and dignified room covered in dark wood paneling, with built-in bookshelves with hundreds of leather-bound volumes protected by beveled glass doors. The Aubusson carpets were thick and plush under his feet. The furniture was exquisitely crafted—a large wooden desk, a smattering of small side tables with green marble tops, chairs upholstered in green silk and velvet.
John had spent plenty of time in the finest rooms of the finest houses. Tonight, he was all too aware that he might never set foot in a room like this again.
Lord Castleton stood upon his arrival. John was invited to sit in a chair. A massive desk stood between them, reinforcing the real Castleton’s inborn superiority.
“So you are Castleton,” the real Castleton began. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I find that interesting, because I am Castleton.”
