Chapter Twelve
* * *
The Milford Country Club
Jane’s high school anniversary reunion
THIS TIME YESTERDAY I had been so sure of my decision to attend this stupid party on my own. And now I was definitely regretting it. I stood off to the side of the main ballroom in the Milford Country Club checking Twitter. There were tons of tweets and twitpics from Duke’s party. Everyone looked deliriously happy and utterly triumphant.
I was anything but deliriously happy and utterly triumphant as I strolled through the crowd of my former classmates on the terrace of the country club. For a moment I paused to watch the golfers on the course that lay just beyond the big, perfectly manicured and unnaturally green lawn that was probably loaded with toxic chemicals.
I sipped my warm chardonnay and glanced around for someone to talk to. I recognized a bunch of people from Facebook, but so many people were strangers. If I hadn’t talked to them in high school, what did I have to say to them now? I shouldn’t have come.
“Hey Jane.”
I turned to see Steve Prewitt, a longtime friend of Sam’s who was branch manager at the local bank, coached the Little League and had married an elementary school teacher. He and Sam often got together to watch football games and do the sort of guy stuff I tried to avoid. But he was a nice guy, so I smiled and said, “Hi Steve.”
“That was a dick thing you did to Sam,” he said abruptly.
“Excuse me?”
“Calling the cops on him when he’s already having a rough time of it,” Steve said, as if I were an idiot for not knowing what he was talking about. I hadn’t involved the cops—but I had decided to call a hotline to find out what my options were. I wanted to be counted. I was told investigators would follow up with Sam. It would be less confrontational than calling police. I wanted him to understand what he did wasn’t okay, and that he should get help. I wanted to do something to make it sure it didn’t happen again, to another girl.
That was all—for now. I wondered how he found out.
“But . . . but he attacked me,” I sputtered in response. How was I the one in the wrong here? I hugged my wine glass against my chest.
“Like he needs more problems,” Steve said. “Especially after your ‘boyfriend’ beat the crap out of him. Did you know his nose is broken? I was in the ER with him.”
I mumbled a sound of sympathy and then asked, “Is he here tonight?”
“Why, so you can call the cops on him? What, did you get a restraining order, too?”
I wished Duke were here. Steve’s confrontation was making me feel sick—my heart was racing and my palms were sweating. I just wanted to get away. But then I could hear Roxanna in my head: “What a dick. Are you seriously going to let him talk to you like that?”
“Mind your own business, Steve,” I said, forcing my voice to be strong. Then I walked away. It was just small town gossip. It was just Steve defending his friend in his own bone-headed way. But I still turned away, shaken.
I started heading toward the bar thinking I’d have one more glass of warm chardonnay and then get in the car and have the driver Duke hired take me back to the city. Everyone was looking at me and whispering. It seemed everyone knew what had happened, and were, unbelievably, taking Sam’s side. But then again—he was one of them and I wasn’t. Not anymore. It was time for me to go.
Skipping that last drink, I headed toward the exit but then I was interrupted by a pregnant blonde woman.
“Jane Sparks, is that you?”
After a second I placed her name.
“Allison! I haven’t seen you since seventh period algebra.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “How is the writing going? I’ve been reading your books when I’m up late feeding the baby,” she said, rubbing her belly in that way pregnant women did.
“Already?” She only looked a few months along.
“Oh, Dakota who is a year old, and Madison, who is 3.”
“Wow. You must be so busy.” If I had stuck to my life schedule, I’d be pregnant with my second now, and working part time. I could not fathom it. I felt that I was exactly where I needed to be in my life. I also felt that I didn’t belong here anymore.
“Oh, I am. I’m sure it doesn’t compare to your fabulous life in the city,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m happy. We’re happy.” She smiled radiantly. I didn’t doubt her joy for a second nor did I think she was at all jealous of my “fabulous life” in the city. We were right where we were supposed to be.
“Well, I can’t imagine fitting all those kids in an NYC apartment,” I said.
“Are the rents as crazy as they say?” A woman I vaguely recognized from U.S. AP history asked, cutting in. I couldn’t remember her name at all.
“Let’s just say I could have a three-bedroom house here for what my roommate and I pay in Chelsea.”
“I don’t know how you stand it there, Jane. All the noise, and commotion, and rats!” Allison said. “Everything is so expensive. And dangerous.”
“It’s pretty safe,” I said. I couldn’t say that the city wasn’t a huge noisy commotion with rats. It was. I loved it. I was totally, madly, completely in love with the city. Why had I come to this party when I could be with the guy I loved in the city I loved?
“But what about what happened with you and Sam?” Allison asked, lowering her voice.
“What happened with you and Sam?” The woman from U.S. history asked. Was her name Melinda? Melissa?
“Nevermind,” I said at the same time Allison said, “I’ll tell you later.”
“That could have happened anywhere,” I said, though inside my brain was shouting what does that have to do with anything? Why does everyone know? Can this party get any worse?
The answer to that last question was yes. This party could get even worse. And it did, with the appearance of the sort of tall, gorgeous, mean blonde woman who tended to make everyone else feel so inadequate, otherwise known as Kate Abbott.
“Hey Jane,” Kate said, striking a pose, as she looked me up and down in such a judgy way.
“Hi Kate,” I said, mustering a smile. I stood a little taller in the “totally fierce” black satin heels and “totally hot” little black dress that Roxanna persuaded me to buy at Barney’s, both of which were totally uncomfortable and a little too done up for this crowd. In this moment, the dress and the shoes were totally worth the splurge and discomfort.
Then Kate made a big show of looking to my left, then to my right, and then all around. She was obviously looking for someone.
“Where’s your billionaire boyfriend?” Kate asked, the question oh-so-cutting. “I don’t see him.”
I gave a tense smile. “He’s at his own party tonight, so he couldn’t make it.”
Allison, Kate, Arwen Kilpatrick, Melissa (Or Melinda?) and a few others all pulled faces of disappointment. They clearly were hoping to meet the Bad Boy Billionaire tonight.
I didn’t know if I was madder at Kate for being so provoking, or with Duke for not showing up for me when we had a deal. It was for moments exactly like this that I had wanted a hot, successful guy by my side. But the looks and the money didn’t matter now. I wanted my guy who I loved, who loved me back, to hold my hand and say something devastatingly romantic and to show the eternally vexing Kate Abbott that she couldn’t bully me.
“Are you sure he’s not your pretend boyfriend?” Kate, of course, burst into laughter because she was so funny. “I read on the Internet that the whole thing was a sham!”
“If you read it on the Internet, it must be true,” I murmured.
“I was just so surprised when I heard about it,” Kate said. “Little busty bookworm Jane Sparks with the hot billionaire tech guy. You just can’t make this stuff up. Or can you?”
“We were hoping to meet him,” Allison said.
“We all thought you would bring him,” Melissa (Melinda?) said.
“I’ve never met a billionaire before,” another woman added. I recognized her as Kelly Wheaton who had snagged the starring role in every school play and musical.
“I wanted to see if The Ashbrooke Effect was real. Is it real, Jane?” Allison asked.
“Or is that something else you made up?” Kate asked.
I kind of sighed, because Kate was starting too fixated on this. Plus, I gathered she hadn’t actually read my books, otherwise she’d know that I named the mean girl of Regency London after her.
I wasn’t the only one finding Kate a bit tedious—Arwen Kilpatrick, a girl I’d been friendly with, rolled her eyes, which made me smile.
“So when is the wedding?” Melissa (Melinda?) asked. “I heard you were engaged.”
“Arwen does weddings now!” Kelly exclaimed. “She’s a big deal wedding planner in New York City. She’ll have to do yours.”
“I’d be happy to!” Arwen replied.
“We’re not engaged, but I’ll definitely keep you in mind if he pops the question,” I said. “You can make my Pinterest board a reality.”
She laughed and said, “I do that all the time.”
“I thought you were engaged. I wanted to see the ring,” Kelly said with a pout.
“We called it off,” I explained. God, why couldn’t he have just showed up for me? I should probably tell Arwen there wouldn’t be a wedding because I was going to murder/maim Duke for not being here right now.
“But now you’re back together,” Melissa (Melinda?) said.
“Yes.”
“But he’s not here. Is it because of what happened with Sam?”
And then I kind of snapped. “You know, there’s more to me than my boyfriends, past, present and possibly future. I write books. I have friends. I have a job. You could tell me what you have been up to since we graduated. Why does it always have to be about men?”
My tangent kept going, but no one was listening. Their attention was fixed on an ever-increasing commotion behind me. The wind picked up, whipping everyone’s hair into a frenzy. I turned: a helicopter was landing on the lawn. It was the churn of its blades that had drowned out my rant.
I soon gave up speaking and gave in to the same pangs of curiosity affecting everyone present.
Who would arrive at the Milford High School reunion in a helicopter?
Once it touched down on the ground and the blades stopped spinning, the door opened and . . .
Duke stepped down.
I smiled as I heard the voices all around. “It’s him! It’s the Bad Boy Billionaire.”
It’s my guy.
He wore a black Project-TK T-shirt, stretched across his broad shoulders and chest. His well-worn Levi’s were low slung on his hips. His hair was perfectly mussed as always, making me want to run my fingers through it as I pulled his mouth to mine.
He strolled across the lawn like he was Somebody. Everyone melted out of his path. Except for me. I stood there, feeling all heart racing, weak in the knees, dizzy in love. He was here. As he had promised. And he had left his big night of triumph for me, showing that I was more important to him than his billion dollar business. Heart melting stuff.
“Hey Sweater Set,” Duke said, standing in front of me.
“Hey you. What are you doing here?”
“I promised,” he said simply. Because it was that simple. Then he gave me that grin—like rogues in a romance novel. And, like a romance hero aware that everyone was watching, he swept me into a dramatic embrace and dip before he kissed me deeply.
“You look hot. But you’re missing something,” he said. I caught a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
Before I could ask what, he placed my cheap but sentimentally priceless cubic zirconia ring in the palm of my hand.
“Where did you find this?”
“I didn’t find it. I stole it,” he confessed, with one of those don’t-hate-me-grins. “I was aided and abetted by Roxanna. Don’t be mad at us.”
“But why?”
“So I could have this made for you,” Duke said. He dropped down to one knee and held up a ring that was identical to the cubic zirconia one in my hand—except it sparkled a hell of a lot more because this one was real.
“Jane, today I achieved everything I ever wanted. But I realized it was meaningless without you by my side. And it wasn’t everything any more. You’re my girl. I love you. Will you marry me?”
Of course I said yes.
Of course tears stung my eyes as he slid the real ring onto my finger and then swept me into a kiss.
Of course I delighted in everyone’s cheers. But they didn’t compare to the fireworks I was feeling.
“Do you want to stay here or head back to the city?” he asked.
“Take me home,” I murmured.
We waved goodbye to everyone and then climbed into the helicopter where Duke had a bottle of chilled champagne and glasses waiting. He popped the cork, poured us two glasses, and we toasted to our future happiness.
“Are you ready?” The pilot asked in a British accent as he turned around to face us.
“Ready,” Duke confirmed. But I was speechless.
“Is that Prince William?” I finally managed to ask in a very low, trying-to-be-cool voice. Because OMG, I think that was Prince William.
Duke just shrugged. And grinned. And said, “I called in a favor.”
“Who are you?” I asked incredulously.
“The Bad Boy Billionaire. The love of your life. Your real life romance hero. Your one and only . . .”
“Oh shush,” I said, laughing as I grabbed a fistful of his Project-TK T-shirt and pulled him in for a long, slow, deep kiss that lasted until we were nearly back in the city.
Soon enough the Manhattan skyline, all lit up, came into view. It was a breathtaking sight. And now it was my home. I grabbed Duke’s hand so he could share in this moment with me. But I saw he was focused on something on his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Really, what could be so important online that it couldn’t wait ten minutes? “You’re missing the most amazing view.”
“Just updating my Facebook status,” he said with a mischievous grin. Then he held out his iPhone for me to see:
Duke Austen is engaged to Jane Sparks.
Author’s Note
* * *
AS I EMBARKED on a series of interconnected historical and contemporary romances (the Bad Boy Billionaire books and my Wallflower novels), I was fascinated to discover all the links between the Regency era and our present day (turns out the computer is one of them!). But one unfortunate similarity is sexual violence and the stigma and suffering of its victims.
This story, and its historical counterpart, What a Wallflower Wants, were influenced by all-too-frequent accounts of sexual violence against women in the news today. These heartbreaking and enraging stories impelled me to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to write about girls—Jane and Prudence—who suffer from sexual assaults but find love and acceptance anyway. I also wanted to write about heroes who defy convention but are heroic in all the ways that truly matter.
Regency romance readers know that to be caught in a “compromising position” is to find oneself proceeding immediately to the altar. It’s all quite romantic—unless it isn’t. In parts of the world today, women are still forced to marry their attackers to preserve “honor.” Or, just as horribly, they are murdered by their own families in some twisted notion of “honor.”
The alternative was—and tragically still too often is—to be considered “ruined” and face social ostracization, harassment, slut-shaming, being blamed, or not even being believed. Many keep their assault a secret. Many are driven to suicide. None of this is okay.
Romance novels are an escape, a fantasy, a pleasure. But these novels are also inspiring, empowering, and have the potential to change hearts and minds with portrayals of two individuals finding healing and happiness in love. I wrote this story to perhaps provide hope. And as with every romance novel I have written, I write the change I want to see: relationships based on mutual trust, respect, and love.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
WHAT A WALLFLOWER WANTS,
the third historical romance novel based on
Jane’s romance with the Bad Boy Billionaire.
An Excerpt from
WHAT A WALLFLOWER WANTS
Miss Prudence Merryweather Payton has escaped a highway robbery and is trudging toward the nearest town, alone and dangerously unchaperoned, when the oh-so-dashing Lord Castleton happens upon her . . .
SHE CARRIED ON, walking another mile or two or twenty. It felt like twenty. The thick white clouds had begun to darken considerably. A thick rumble of thunder disturbed the birdsong. A storm. Perfect. While the rain might be cooling, she didn’t fancy trudging along when this dirt road turned to mud.
And then the sweetest sound in the world reached her ears. It was the sound of a carriage approaching. The clip of the horse’s hooves was unmistakable.
“Please let this be a lady and her maid,” Prudence prayed, setting down her valise. “Or a kind family. Or an old dowager.”
Prue turned to look and see if her prayers had been answered. An exceedingly fine—and fast—carriage rolled toward her, cloud of dust behind it, and pulled by two pure white stallions. Unfortunately, the carriage was driven by a man.
As the carriage came closer, she saw that he was a large man. A young man.
Then the carriage rolled to a gentle stop beside her.
She noticed his boots first: large, shiny black Hessians that reached his knee. His valet must have spent hours polishing them to such a high shine. Her gaze then traveled up, inevitably, to muscular thighs clad in very fitted kerseymere breeches. His waistcoat was a pale blue silk, the color of the sky approximately three hours earlier, before the sun reached its peak in the sky.
His jacket was green, like the pine needles in the forest that had softened her steps as she made her escape. Of course his chest and shoulders were broad.
And when she lifted her gaze higher still, to his face?
To hell with you, God.
This man’s face, with his blue eyes and easy smile, made her think of once upon a time. Once upon a time when she still believed in heroes saved the day. Once upon a time, when she still believed that somewhere, out there, was a man who would love her. Once upon a time, when a young girl’s dreams came true and happily-ever-after was just within reach. That was a long time ago. These days, Prudence knew better. She knew that wolves wore rogue’s clothing and they had a taste for young ladies.
“Good afternoon,” he said with a tip of his hat and a smile that revealed a slight dimple in his left cheek. He was entirely handsome, from his slightly unruly brown hair down to the tips of his shiny black boots. And he was smiling at her in a way that made her feel like fireworks inside: hot, shimmering, sparkling explosions that took her breath away with their beauty.
Prudence managed a tight smile, wanting to be polite but not encouraging.
“Would you like a ride somewhere miss? I’d be happy to oblige,” he offered.
Of course she wanted a ride somewhere. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to sit on the upholstered carriage bench, under the shade of the carriage top. She wanted to set down her bag and sigh with relief. She wanted to sit beside this impossibly handsome man and gaze up at his blue eyes and think about falling in love rather than being accosted and left for dead, or worse.
She knew about worse.
So even though this handsome man smiled at her kindly and had magically appeared during her hour of need to offer her a much-desired ride, Prudence said no.
To be more precise, she said, “No, thank you.”
This was punctuated by another rumble of thunder.
The man, drat him, lifted one brow curiously and looked impossibly handsome whilst doing so.
“It’s a hot day to be out walking,” he remarked.
“I am well aware of that,” she replied dryly and he laughed. To her vast irritation, it was a warm, lovely sound that she might have enjoyed under other circumstances or in another lifetime or if she were another person entirely.
“It’s also likely to rain,” he gesturing toward the thick, dark clouds. There was another rumble of thunder so perfectly timed she wondered if he had a way of commanding the weather.
“How refreshing.” She glanced down the road. A plume of smoke was rising up, far off in the distance. Was that a town just ahead? And could she walk there before the rain started? Maybe. If this man would leave her to trudge along.
“I beg your pardon, I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Castleton,” he said with the lordly authority that Prudence recognized from all the haughty peers she knew in London—and strenuously avoided.
She ought to introduce herself. Which name should she give him? Prude Prudence? Or London’s Least Likely To Be Caught In A Compromising Position? Not being a complete ninny, she wasn’t about to give her real name to a strange man she encountered on the side of the road.
“I’m Miss Merryweather.”
“Miss Merryweather, I’d be more than happy to drive you into town. It’s just a mile or so ahead.”
Oh, thank God.
“I’d prefer to walk, thank you,” she told him. To prove her point, she started trudging toward town. Her feet throbbed. Her back ached. In her gloves, her hands were positively raw from carrying her bag. But there was no way she was going to put herself at the mercy of a man she didn’t know.
“Would you like company?” he offered, not at all taking the hint that she wasn’t the slightest bit interested.
Correction: She was interested. But she had no intention of indulging in her interest of him and what he offered. Her life had made it plain that men were brutes not to be trusted and God had made it abundantly clear that she was not to have love or marriage. There was no point in her furthering her acquaintance with this man. Nothing good could come of it.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Are you quite certain you don’t want a ride, Miss Merryweather? I’d feel like the worst sort of gentleman if I left you on your own by the side of a desolate country road with a rainstorm imminent. I’d be much obliged if you let me drive you into town.”
“And I’d be much obliged if you left me to proceed in peace.” She couldn’t stand the temptation much longer and she could. Not. Get. In. That. Carriage.
Not for the first time did she curse The Beast.
If it weren’t for him, she could have climbed into that carriage and let herself fall in love. If it weren’t for him, she’d probably be happily married to a wonderful man with a baby or two. She wouldn’t be here—escaping alone from a highway robbery, aching and scared on the side of the road refusing the offer of a handsome man.
“As you wish. Enjoy your walk. Good day,” Castleton said with another tip of his hat and flash of his smile. Then he flicked the reigns, the stallion picked up a trot and Prudence was left behind in the dust.
Spoiler alert: Prudence and Castleton find each other stranded at an inn together, alone, with secrets . . .