What a Wallflower Wants

by Maya Rodale

  Keeping his secret had kept her safe.

  Revealing it had cost him his future.

  That memory of her breathless “Ha!” smothered any hope he might have still nurtured.

  Having walked all over London, John suddenly found himself at the docks. The place was just stirring to life. Sailors and unsavory characters went about their business. Ships rocked gently on the river.

  The sun was starting to rise. Was this the light of a new day dawning—one where he was liberated from the secrets he had kept and the past he’d been running from? Or was this the beginning of another like all the ones before?

  It was the matter of minutes and a few inquiries whereby John learned of a ship departing for America that afternoon.

  He bought a ticket.

  Galloway’s Coffee Shop

  With a few hours to kill before leaving England and Prudence forever, John found a coffee shop and settled in with a mug of black coffee and an assortment of newspapers so freshly printed they left ink smeared on his hands.

  The light was dim—it was just after dawn on an overcast day, and there were hardly any candles about the shop. John squinted at the issue of The London Weekly in his hands, just barely making out the small moveable type. The headline was easy enough to read, though: The Great Exhibition Opens in London Today.

  The article detailed all of the inventions and notable personages expected to be in attendance, and the author went on at length about the achievements on display, how England was the greatest nation on earth, how all these innovations would lead to a bright future. This was a celebration of unprecedented advances in technology, a showcase of man’s brilliance and his greatest achievements.

  John couldn’t lie: it burned to read those words. He felt, once more, as if he were back at the Coach & Horses, pacing in front of the window, looking out at the incessant rain and watching it wash away his hopes and dreams.

  That was just one of the obstacles he had overcome. For an upstart footman, running like the wind with the law chasing after him, he’d made it pretty damn far.

  So it burned to be so close and to miss it. His stomach ached with wanting to be there.

  John patted his pocket, feeling the ticket to America.

  He ought to write a letter to his mother and sister. Tell them about the change in plans. He would send for them once he was settled.

  He took another sip of hot black coffee, and that burned, too. Then he turned the page, finding the gossip columns there. He kept reading. There was a sea of names he didn’t recognize, names of people he would never meet, soirees he would never attend, a life he would never live.

  John glanced up, around the dark coffee shop. It was full of plainly dressed men with mugs of coffee and thick stubs of cigars in their rough hands. They all had newspapers, and they were all reading about a government they couldn’t participate in, plays and operas they were unlikely to see, information about ships coming and going without them.

  The ticket was still there, in his pocket.

  He had a choice.

  He had a way out.

  One name in bold print in the gossip did catch John’s eye. Then another and another and another:

  What were they to call Miss Prudence Merryweather Payton?

  “Prue,” he whispered, answering the question posed by the newspaper. Then he continued to read.

  Do we call her Prude Prudence?

  He swallowed hard, remembering the moment in the carriage when she’d told him of this cruel name. She’d been so matter-of-fact about how awful it was, and he’d hardly been able to breathe from a painful mixture of anger and empathy, knowing what had happened to her and knowing the cruel names they taunted her with.

  London’s Least Likely to Be Caught in a Compromising Position?

  John nearly crumpled the newspaper in his fists when he saw that in print.

  Doesn’t that just slay you? she had asked. Yes, by God, it did just slay him. That girl of his—in his heart of hearts, Prudence would always be his—had survived the worst thing that could happen. She’d carried on with a strength and stubbornness that were simply humbling and awe-inspiring.

  John felt that ticket in his pocket, but this time he felt ashamed for running.

  He was always running, wasn’t he? From one gamble to another, waiting for the big reward that never came. But could he afford to stop running now?

  Do we call her Lady Nanson?

  So that was the name of that pipsqueak fiancé of hers who’d left her roaming the countryside on her own. Whoever this Nanson was, he didn’t deserve a woman like Prue. The question was: did John?

  Everyone knows not to call her Lady Castleton.

  The burn of the smoke and cigars . . . the burn of the black coffee in his throat . . . it was nothing compared to the fiery flames of regret charring him from the inside out. He had set her up for humiliation on the night she’d most wanted to impress. He wanted to spend a lifetime making it up to her. But did he deserve such an opportunity?

  What do we call this wallflower?

  With that, John did crumple the damned paper into a tight ball that left black ink all over his hands. He tossed it into the fireplace and watched it erupted into flames.

  John watched it burn, and under his breath he muttered, “You call her Mrs. Prudence Roark.”

  Chapter 26

  The Great Exhibition

  OF ALL THE things on display, none commanded more attention than the Difference Engine. It was difficult to look away from the gleaming brass machine that stood eight feet high, seven feet long, and three feet deep. It was surrounded by a throng of curious people, eager to watch the machine perform calculations.

  The Duke of Ashbrooke, the machine’s brilliant inventor and a renowned charmer, held a crowd of men and women captive with his explanation of how the machine worked and how it would change the world for the better.

  Nearby, Baron Radcliffe, a quiet genius, was immersed in a serious conversation with members from the Royal Society about all the parts he had designed, constructed, and assembled to make a working machine that performed all manner of calculations correctly, every time.

  Emma, Olivia, and Prudence stood off to the side, taking it all in.

  “Don’t they look so happy?” Emma gushed.

  “They look ridiculously happy,” Prudence concurred. “Perhaps even triumphant.”

  She felt a twinge of something, thinking of John and how badly he had wanted to be at this exhibition, to see this machine and to shake the hands of the inventors. She remembered her envy at his ambitious and audacious plans for his future, when hers had been a long, bleak expanse of loneliness. But what was his future, now that he was exposed as a lying and lawbreaking footman?

  Amongst the other memories weighing on her mind was her promise to introduce John to Ashbrooke and Radcliffe as a debt of gratitude for rescuing her from Dudley. He had refused her offer.

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

  I want to. She did want to, with her whole heart.

  Prue wondered now if she had made it impossible to confide in her by extending this coveted invitation to Lord Castleton, a noble peer of the realm. By revealing his true identity to her, he might have risked loosing the opportunity to gain an introduction to Ashbrooke and Radcliffe.

  Or was she simply making excuses for him, twisting the facts around and taking the blame upon herself? He ought to have told her the truth the night Dudley had attacked her the second time.

  Where is he now? she wondered. Had he been arrested? Had he fled the country before they could capture him? That would be the sensible thing to do, and she wouldn’t blame him for it. Why, then, did a small, rebellious bit of her heart still wish that he would stroll in here, to the Great Exhibition, and magically make everything better?

  “They’re so very handsome, too,” Olivia sighed. She and Emma were lost in a world of adoration for their husbands. Their handsome, charming, brillian
t, not-lying-about-their-identities actual in-the-eyes-of-God husbands.

  Prudence smiled tightly and turned away. She was happy for her friends. Truly. Deeply. Happy. But at the same time, she was sad for herself. Why did it always have to be so hard? For every step forward, Prue seemed to take two steps back.

  Her every hope for happiness had been taken from her. Again.

  This time she was well and truly ruined. This morning Emma and Olivia had tried to hide the gossip columns from her, but Prue had caught a glimpse and seen enough.

  One of London’s Least Likely was rumored to have wed two different men, one of whom was already wed to another. She had attacked the heir to the Marquis of Scarbrough in public. Men fought duels for less.

  The reporters didn’t know what to call her: Prude Prudence, London’s Least Likely to Be Caught in a Compromising Position, Lady Nanson, Lady Castleton.

  Prudence heaved a heartfelt, tragic sigh. She longed to go back to being Miss Merryweather in those moments when she had started falling for John, before everything had started to go wrong.

  “What is bothering you, Prudence?” Olivia asked. “You seem awfully glum.”

  “And who do you keep looking around for?” Emma asked, looking around herself.

  “That’s a ridiculous question,” Olivia replied. “She’s obviously hoping that handsome stranger of hers will arrive.”

  “Well then, he’s probably the reason she’s glum, Olivia,” Emma retorted.

  Correct on both counts.

  “I do hope he turns up,” Emma said.

  “I as well,” Olivia agreed. “I’d like to meet the man who our Prudence has fallen in love with.”

  If only they knew that the man she had fallen in love with was a footman! Who had lied to her about who he was! Would they still wish to meet him then? Emma was a duchess—she couldn’t consort with lawbreaking servants. Olivia’s own reputation was only just recovering after her outrageous attempts to ruin it earlier this season. It was one thing to ask for their support for a horrid secret from years previous. Asking them to publicly support a man in John’s situation was quite another.

  But honestly, when had Prue become such a snob?

  “I’d like to plan a wedding,” Emma said, sweetly oblivious to the impossibility of Prue’s marriage to anyone. At all. Ever.

  “Your wedding wasn’t enough?” Olivia asked.

  “My wedding was a spontaneous, thrown-together affair,” Emma answered.

  “There won’t be a wedding,” Prudence said flatly. She thought of all her attempts and all her talks with God. Every time she had come close to marriage and a possible happy ending, the rug was yanked out from under her feet. She could just imagine God laughing and thundering, I jest, Miss Payton, I jest!

  Prudence was in no mood for humor.

  “Why won’t there be a wedding?” Emma demanded.

  “Yes, why not?” Olivia echoed.

  “Because he lied to me,” Prudence said, confessing. “He told me that he was Lord Castleton.”

  “Which we now know he is not,” Olivia said.

  “A man with a secret identity! How delicious,” Emma said.

  To which Prudence replied, “You read too many novels.”

  “Or perhaps you don’t read enough,” Emma retorted.

  “Ahem,” Olivia interrupted. “Who is this man, if he is not Lord Castleton?”

  Prudence glanced from one friend to the other. They were waiting impatiently for her to reveal the full truth, because they were the best of friends and thus they oughtn’t keep secrets from each other.

  Fine. FINE.

  “Not only is he not Lord Castleton,” Prudence said. “He is a footman.”

  Emma and Olivia remained very quiet for a moment. A long moment. Their expressions were inscrutable as they processed this information. Prudence sighed. This is what she’d feared. Their judgment. Like all gently bred young ladies, they had been raised to marry and marry well.

  A baron qualified as marrying well. To land a duke was the height of marital success. To marry a servant was to lower oneself tremendously. It might not be right, but it was the way of things. Alas, Prudence thought with a sigh. Alas.

  Finally, Emma spoke. “He’s a very handsome footman.”

  “He certainly knows how to make an entrance,” Olivia added.

  “And the way he looks at you, Prue . . .” Emma sighed. “I’d say his gaze sparkles.”

  “No, it smolders,” Olivia countered.

  “It was very plain that he loves you,” Emma said. Olivia agreed.

  Prudence’s heart started to pound. They obviously did not care one whit about his station—or lack thereof. All they were concerned about was whether his gaze sparkled or smoldered when he looked at her.

  Prudence knew that he couldn’t have faked the love in his eyes when he’d looked at her. That much was true. But was that enough?

  “Oh, look, he’s coming this way!” Olivia exclaimed, pointing at him, even though young ladies didn’t point.

  “And he’s looking very determined,” Emma murmured.

  The trio turned to watch his approach. The crowds were thick, especially around the engine, but they melted out of his way. Prudence watched him cut through the hordes of people, wearing the fine clothes of a gentleman. If she hadn’t known better, she would have assumed he was a peer of the realm—a duke, even! There was something in the way he carried himself—with such assurance and authority that they were all lucky to breathe the same air as he. She tried to imagine him in livery.

  But then one look in those blue, blue eyes of his and there was no denying that this was a man who mattered.

  And then he was standing before her and she found it hard to breathe, in a lovely, aching way. Her mind knew of his treachery, but her body remembered only the pleasure of his touch.

  “Hello, Prudence,” he murmured.

  “Hello,” she replied softly.

  John had finally, finally made it to the Great Exhibition. The Difference Engine was right there, yet he only had eyes for Prue.

  She was so obviously a proper lady—from the complicated arrangement of her hair to her very fine green dress and delicate gloves—that he almost lost his nerve. Her natural polish made him painfully aware of how he had faked his upper-class accent (though it came naturally now) and adopted the other outward trappings of a gentleman.

  Prudence looked beautiful, though he preferred her with her hair unbound and her skin bare in the candlelight, anticipating his touch.

  That memory, so vivid he could almost see it and feel it anew, reminded him why he was here. They belonged together. They had connected in all the ways that mattered.

  John was here not because of some long-standing ambition, or a great hulking machine, or that introduction she had promised before she’d known who he really was. John was here because he loved her. One didn’t get on a boat and sail halfway across the world, never to return, without saying goodbye to the person one loved.

  Of course one had to say the word “goodbye,” whilst he was just standing there and gazing at her like an idiot.

  It had to be noted that she gazed back at him.

  That is, until another young lady with fair hair elbowed her in the ribs. The action was meant to be discreet. It was not. A woman with darker hair stepped next to Prudence. The two of them looked at Prue, then at him, and back again.

  “May I present . . .” Prue faltered with the introductions.

  “I am Emma,” the dark-haired one said, “and this is Olivia.”

  It was a notable lack of formality, and he suspected that the women were Prue’s friends, the Duchess of Ashbrooke and Lady Radcliffe, and that Prue must have told them about him.

  “And this is . . .” Again Prue faltered. He knew why; how was she to introduce him, if not as Castleton?

  “John Roark,” he said.

  “We are so happy to meet you,” Olivia gushed.

  “Indeed, it is a great pleasure to make
your acquaintance,” Emma added.

  Prudence blushed furiously.

  “Come, I shall introduce you to Ashbrooke and Radcliffe,” Prudence said. She started to walk away, but he stepped quickly after her, reaching out for her hand.

  “Prue, wait.”

  She didn’t pull her hand away. She turned instead to face him.

  He glanced over at Emma and Olivia. They had obviously noticed his intimate use of her nickname. After A Look from Prue, they shuffled back, allowing John a modicum of privacy. Not that the Great Exhibition was a place for a private conversation, but this was his only opportunity.

  “Prue, I’m not here for an introduction,” he said urgently.

  “It’s all right,” she replied kindly. Or was that pityingly? “I gave you my word. It’s a matter of honor.”

  “I don’t want to meet them,” John insisted.

  “Then why are you here?” Prudence asked, obviously surprised that he would turn down the opportunity and confused as to why.

  “I came to say goodbye,” he said softly. That disastrous scene last night couldn’t be the last time he ever saw her.

  “Goodbye?” Prue echoed, sounding surprised.

  He swallowed hard. He didn’t want this to be goodbye. He’d give anything for this to be the start of something. But in the event she never wanted to see him again, he would go. John would not skulk around like Dudley, reminding her of the time she had been so vulnerable and taken advantage of.

  So John reached into his pocket and pulled out the ticket to show her.

  “I’m leaving for America,” he explained.

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “That’s so soon.”

  “Unless . . .” His chest was tight. His heart was pounding hard. He, who seized every opportunity, was giving up and putting his fate in the hands of this woman. His future was her choice.

  John held his breath, praying she would say, Stay or Farewell and he would know which way to run this time—into her arms or down to the docks. What she said next surprised him.