What a Wallflower Wants (Wallflower Trilogy) by Maya Rodale

Author:Maya Rodale [Rodale, Maya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-09-29T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The following day

The day before Lady Penelope’s Ball

UNTIL THE PREVIOUS evening, stuff of the flesh had been bad, horrible, and a never-ending nightmare for Prudence. This morning, she wasn’t fixed or healed or normal by any stretch. But she did know that there was at least one man in the world who didn’t take gross advantage of a woman. And dear God, she had just discovered that her body could feel pleasure, too.

The world as she knew it had tilted sharply on its axis, jumbling everything.

There was much to reconsider, like how lucky she was that she hadn’t married Cecil after all. She hoped he was all right. Surely he’d found his way back to his estate or town. But it was for the best that they’d never wed. They would never have made each other happy, and he would certainly never have taught her how to defend herself or pleasure herself.

Although now she didn’t have a husband for Lady Penelope’s Ball.

Perhaps she shouldn’t even go. They might not arrive in time. She didn’t have a dress. She still didn’t have the gumption to go alone.

Prudence gave a sidelong glance at the tall, handsome man seated beside her in the carriage.

Or they might arrive in time, she could procure a dress, and . . .

John caught her glancing at him with a thoughtful expression on her face.

“I’ve been thinking,” Prudence remarked.

“Oh no,” he said with a nervous glance in her direction. She pursed her lips peevishly.

“I hate to ask you for anything,” she began.

“This is ridiculous,” he replied. “I want to give you everything. I hope last night demonstrated that.”

“You’re making me blush,” Prudence replied.

Castleton glanced over at her. Her cheeks were indeed pink. It was adorable.

“Ask me anything, Prudence,” he said. He meant it.

“Can we pretend to be married?” Prudence asked.

“We already are pretending to be married,” he answered. “We’ve been telling innkeepers all over the countryside that very ‘fact.’ ”

“Can we keep pretending when we get to London?” Prudence pressed on.

She had already promised him an introduction to Ashbrooke and Radcliffe, and he was confident that she wouldn’t go back on her word. He had nothing to gain from this but Prudence’s happiness, which was reason enough for him to say yes. Still, he hesitated.

“Is there an occasion, or is this an indefinite arrangement?”

“There is a party,” Prudence began to explain. “An anniversary party. It’s a stupid thing, and I’d already given up on attending, let alone attending with a husband, but then last night . . .”

Something had changed last night. He had felt it, too. He’d been with women before—he was a man, and one with a pulse at that. There had been flirtatious and obliging housemaids, and barmaids, and, recently, the occasional widow who’d taken advantage of the freedom of her station and whom he’d been happy to oblige.

But he had never felt such a soul-deep connection with another person—never mind that the woman in question had been across the room and in a haze of her own.

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