by Maya Rodale
“Most people don’t seem to see the practical applications,” Ashbrooke said.
“Most people are idiots,” said the former footman. The confidence he had used to pass himself off as a viscount wasn’t entirely feigned. Every time he’d achieved something that no one ever expected from a man of his station, his confidence had increased until it was simply who he was.
“What is your plan for the engine?” Radcliffe asked. “Not that we’ll agree to it. I’m just curious.”
“I’d like to license the manufacturing of the engine from you,” John explained. “I have secured the capital necessary to establish the factory. And then I’d like to sell them.”
“What makes you think we haven’t already made such plans ourselves?” Ashbrooke asked, lifting one brow in the challenging way only a duke could.
“Because you only just got the thing built and determined that it worked,” John answered. “This is only the beginning. You could design an additional machine to print out the calculations performed. And who is to say machines cannot eventually do more than mathematical calculations?”
“You have grand ideas,” Radcliffe said, but John could see he was already thinking about what those machines might be and how to build them.
“A man has time to think whilst he’s standing at a door, waiting for a reason to open it,” John said, alluding to his past service. There was no use hiding it any longer—everyone knew. What a relief it was. How freeing it felt. How exhausting it had been carrying that secret around, waiting at any moment for the world to find out. He thought of Prudence. He understood her now in a way he hadn’t before.
“How did you come by the capital?” Ashbrooke asked. “And before you worry about the possibly nefarious means by which we suspect you came by it, be assured that it cannot possibly top what I did to raise funds to build the engine in the first place.”
“My money came from the usual sources of an idle gentleman: card games, wagers on stupid things with drunk lords, smart investments in the Exchange,” John explained. He’d earned for the real Lord Castleton the reputation of a man who never overimbibed, who never wagered recklessly, and who always won honorably.
“And have you secured enough money to fund this venture with the engine and support a wife in the manner which she has been raised?” Radcliffe asked.
And then there was that.
There was no point in pretending he wasn’t about to propose to Prudence immediately following this interview. Hell, he was glad that in the tragic event that she refused him, Prudence had powerful men to champion her and protect her. No matter what, she was not alone. He hoped she knew that.
“Yes, I can support a wife,” John answered. “Perhaps not in as grand a fashion as this, but if Miss Payton accepts my proposal, she’ll want for nothing. Especially love.”
“A romantic,” Ashbrooke said, grinning.
“You’re the second person to tell me that today,” John remarked. “What I’d like to know is if I’ll also be the one to bring the Difference Engine to the people.”
Ashbrooke and Radcliffe exchanged a glance that seemed to say it all. And then the duke extended his hand.
“We’re looking forward to doing business with you, Roark. Now go propose.”
Four o’clock
Number 4, Mount Street
His father was not as empathetic or accommodating as Dudley had anticipated, based on prior experiences when trouble had found him and his father had made trouble go away.
“The thing is, you’ve gone too far this time,” his father lectured. Dudley sulked in a chair, brandy in hand and a sneer on his face. “A highborn woman! You have to keep it in your breeches around the gently bred. That’s practically the first thing any aristo learns. God knows I give you enough allowance to pay for a whore.”
Dudley didn’t know why a whore wasn’t enough or why he’d pursued Prude Prudence. But he did remember feeling satisfied after. God, he’d felt in control, on top of the world, unstoppable.
She had resisted. And then she hadn’t.
He had subdued her, made her want him and his cock, made her pliant in his arms and submissive to his will. He never felt like that in day-to-day life, what with his father calling all the shots about all and every estate matter, and card games never quite turning out in his favor, and all the entertainments of London easily obtained without much effort.
“It was years ago,” Dudley muttered weakly in his defense.
“Well, the family name has been sullied in the papers today,” his father thundered, his face reddening as his voice strained with anger. “It ruined my breakfast, I tell you! How am I to face my friends at the club, when they all know that my son was the one damned fool that didn’t understand where and when to take his pleasure?”
Dudley decided not to mention the fact that his father might not be granted entry to White’s in the near future.
“And what of your sister? She is still unwed. This will significantly diminish her prospects, if not ruin her entirely.”
Dudley shifted in his chair, thinking of his sister. That his actions would affect her future never crossed his mind. There was Dudley and what he wanted and that was all. His sister was just a girl who would accept the proposal their father told her to accept—because when did a woman’s wishes have to do with anything?
“It’ll blow over when another scandal hits,” Dudley replied, sipping his brandy and drawing upon the truth of life in high society. “Always does.”
“God willing I will see the day,” his father said. And then, leveling a hard stare at his son, he said, “But you won’t. You will be in the West Indies. I have purchased you a commission.”
“The West Indies? A commission?” Dudley asked, straightening in the chair. “That’s practically a death sentence, and I am your heir.”
His status as heir is what protected him from everything, particularly the consequences of his actions. After all, one had to protect the legacy.
“You are a disgrace. Your ship boards this evening.”
Five o’clock in the afternoon
Number 12, Berkeley Square
Prudence was in the drawing room, alone, watching the minutes and seconds of her life tick by. She would go mad soon. Would he be free? If so, would John come to her or would he find another ship to America?
“By all rights, I ought to have given up hope for love and happily ever after,” she continued softly under her breath. “But I haven’t.”
That was the thing of it: in spite of all her experiences, both devastating and exhilarating, she still had hope that maybe, just maybe, she would find that sense of wholeness she craved. And she had caught a glimpse of such happiness. She just had to believe.
Prue had done everything she could to ensure his freedom, short of marching down to Newgate herself. It wasn’t entirely out of the question. Prue had learned that Ashbrooke and Radcliffe, at the behest of their wives, had spoken with Lord Castleton. It seemed that he was under enormous pressure to let John go. If only he would. . . .
The clock ticked. Callers—Lady Castleton, Emma, Olivia—had come and gone. Prudence was sick to death of tea and this drawing room and forever waiting for life to happen to her. But what could she do? There was precious little a girl could do on her own. Prue intently missed the freedom—terrifying, exhilarating freedom—of her wild adventure in the countryside.
“Farnesworth, my gloves and bonnet if you please.” She didn’t know where she was going, but she had to get out and feel the wind on her cheeks and breathe the fresh air and remember the times she was truly happy. On the run. With John by her side.
And then, suddenly, he was there.
A knock at the door.
Farnesworth opened it.
John, standing on her doorstep, lifting his head and gazing intensely. Blue eyes, the unruly dark hair, the slight grin, the broad shoulders . . . whether John or Castleton, he was the man she loved.
“Who may I ask is calling?” Farn
esworth inquired.
“Roark. Mr. John Roark. For Miss Prudence Merryweather Payton,” John replied to the butler without ever taking his eyes off Prue. She stood rooted to the foyer floor, unable to move and hardly able to breathe.
“I shall see if she is at home,” the butler intoned. Even though she very clearly was at home. They gazed at each other until Farnesworth closed the door with a gentle click in the latch.
Before she could protest, the butler turned to her and asked, “Are you at home to this gentleman?”
A gentleman he was—in dress, in appearance, in the way he carried himself, in his actions and his goodness.
“Yes,” Prudence said, smiling broadly and rushing forward to fling open the door and launch herself into John’s arms.
She breathed in deeply, finding comfort and happiness in his scent and the imprint of his body against hers. She felt the soft strands of his hair entwined with her fingers and the lovely fierceness with which he held her close.
They were on the doorstep, where all of Berkeley Square and their spying neighbors could see. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered, because he was here, and free, and they were in love.
Farnesworth’s discreet cough reminded them that they were causing a scene. In his eyes, Prudence’s reputation was still something to be handled with care. Hand in hand, Prudence led John to the drawing room. She left the door slightly ajar.
“You look beautiful,” he said. She smiled faintly and blushed, still not quite used to being noticed, but liking it. “I don’t know if I ever told you how beautiful you are.”
She blushed again.
“You are quite fine yourself . . . ,” Prudence said a bit bashfully in return. She clasped her hands behind her back. He was here. No one ever came for her, and he’d just been locked up in prison, yet he was here, in her drawing room, looking more handsome than she remembered.
“This footman cleans up well, doesn’t he?” he said, the self-deprecating comment a test.
“Aye,” Prudence agreed, allowing her gaze to roam from the tip of his shiny Hessian boots to his broad chest and handsome face that made her believe in happily ever after. She smiled and said, “But what girl doesn’t fancy a man in uniform?”
John flashed a grin. The air between them was charged with electricity. Anticipating his touch, she had to rein in her racing heart. Then his expression became more serious.
“I have to tell you some things, Prue. But tell me to stop at any time.”
“Don’t stop,” she said softly. She wanted to hear him. “Tell me.”
“I am sorry that I let you believe I was Castleton. And I’m sorry that I’m not actually very sorry,” he said, pausing with a faint grin, “because I’m afraid we would never have met or known each other otherwise. I’m sorry that I have to believe that, because it doesn’t flatter you.”
The truth was, she wouldn’t have considered accepting a ride if he’d been driving a humble cart or a carriage. And the truth was, she didn’t know if she would have allowed herself to fall in love with him if she hadn’t thought there was a remote chance of marriage. But she didn’t know then about how love mattered more than anything.
So she said, “Don’t stop. Tell me more.”
John exhaled and pushed his fingers through his hair, mussing it up.
“I am sorry that I didn’t reveal my true identity to you when you confessed what you had suffered. You were brave enough to speak of your secret. But I wasn’t. I admire you tremendously for that, Prudence.”
She smiled slightly, basking in admiration instead of pity.
“You have no idea how you’ve made me brave or how much I’ve spoken up since,” Prudence said. She would explain it all later if he hadn’t seen the paper already.
“Here’s the truth: I’m a lowborn bastard. I was raised in service but had dreams above my station. I stole candles and borrowed books from my employers so that I could teach myself something other than how to pour the port after supper or open a door. I’ve been violent, but only on behalf of women who couldn’t defend themselves. I assumed another man’s identity, attended house parties, horse races, you name it, as Lord Castleton. I let you believe it. The truth is, I’m a nobody with too many flaws to count. But I love you.”
That was the truth, wasn’t it? Everyone had their flaws and exhausted themselves trying to hide them. Nothing was perfect. One couldn’t let that stand in the way of love.
“I love you, too,” Prudence said, glad to finally tell him, even though those three little words didn’t adequately express the enormity and intensity of her feelings for him. “The truth is, you have made me feel loved. You have given me strength, and happiness, and hope. And you are truly, in all the ways that really matter, better than every other man I know.”
Prudence saw the tension fall away from him. She knew the feeling. When assured of love, one could have faith that everything would be all right. One could enjoy the comfort that love provides.
“I can’t promise you that society won’t shun us, but no matter what, I will stand by you,” John said. “I struck a deal with Ashbrooke and Radcliffe that might make us ridiculously wealthy—or utterly penniless. Somehow, I will always provide for us. I can promise that I will do everything I can to make you happy. I promise to love you forever,” John said. Then he took her hands in his and dropped to one knee.
“Prudence Merryweather Payton, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes,” Prudence said, the word a rush of breath across her lips. “Yes, I will, yes.”
LADY DARE PEEKED through the drawing room door, which had been left slightly ajar, and saw a man on one knee and her niece looking splendid, gloriously happy, and madly in love. Rather than interrupt, she softly closed the door behind her, hummed a little song, and started to plan a wedding.
JOHN LOWERED HIS mouth to Prudence’s. That kiss was sweet, like the sun coming out after the rain or like the first shoots of spring after a long, bitterly cold winter. That kiss was gentle, afraid this happiness was a fragile thing. After all, things could go horribly awry. But then again . . . everything had gone horribly awry and here they were, locked in a kiss that she felt from her head to her toes, and deep down in her soul. She felt safe enough to let go and enjoy the pleasure of the moment.
DOWN AT THE docks, Dudley boarded a ship bound for the West Indies. It relied upon navigational charts that were riddled with errors—which wouldn’t have been the case had the calculations been done by the Difference Engine rather than former French hairdressers with little mathematical training who had become computers after the revolution. There was a very good chance that ship would not reach its intended destination. Meanwhile, Prudence said yes.
“YES," SHE WHISPERED. Until this moment, John hadn’t known how one little word, whispered so softly, could be the happiest sound in the world. He’d gone from nothing, to possibly everything, back to not a damn thing, and now he held Prudence in his arms for a kiss that undid him. She knew about him—all about him—and she still kissed him with the sweetness and passion he’d feared he’d lost forever.
His hands skimmed lower down her back, then up to the curve of her breasts.
“Yes,” she whispered. He thumbed the center of her gown, above the fabric. A soft sigh escaped her. “Yes.” She threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed up against him. Thank God she said yes. Now if only the wedding could happen now.
Somehow, without quite realizing it, they tumbled down to the settee with Prue beneath him.
“Yes,” Prudence whispered, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. Then she gave a coy smile and writhed slightly underneath him. He groaned, thinking he was going to enjoy marriage. But first . . . there was a beautiful woman in his arms, and he was going to make love to her.
WHILE ALL OVER town people were still reading Prue’s bold letter in The London Weekly—the housemaids who found it whilst cleaning, those who read it in the coffee shop or over afternoon tea, or th
ose who reread it once more—Prudence said yes.
“YES,” SHE GASPED, feeling alive everywhere John touched her. Which is to say, she felt alive everywhere. Her skin tingled with pleasure under his fingertips. She felt him, hard, at her entrance. “Yes,” she gasped again, wanting to feel him inside, wanting to be one with him. Gazes locked, he entered her slowly. “Yes,” she murmured as he began to move, and her hips moved with him instinctively. She felt the muscles of his back flex under her palms as she pressed him close. She breathed him in until her breaths were shallow and her heart was pounding and that exquisite pressure was building within her. A moment ago she’d had thoughts about trust, radiant happiness, and feeling protected and loved—God, she felt so thoroughly loved—but they flew from her head until only one thought remained. “Yes,” she cried out as she came. John came, too, burying his face in her shoulder to muffle the sound of his shout.
He held her close and she thought Yes to life and love and happily ever after.
Epilogue
Fourteen years later
Amner Hall, Bucklebury
AFTER ROARK “JUST GOT” a factory, he “just happened” to manufacture the Difference Engine, which just happened to earn him a fortune. From there, he partnered with London’s most famous newspaperman, Mr. Derek Knightly, now Lord Northbourne, to print new and correct editions of the reckoning books. With his hard-earned wealth, Roark invested in other promising ventures—which only seemed to bring him more money.
He also “just got” Amner Hall, a lovely, rambling country estate with a brick house covered with wisteria and plenty of bedrooms for his and Prudence’s ever-growing brood of children. There were two boys and two girls and another on the way.
The estate was conveniently situated between the country residences of the Duke and Duchess of Ashbrooke and Lord and Lady Radcliffe. When the families weren’t in town, they were often visiting each other.
