She snorted.
“I promise.” He gave another curl a playful tug.
“And furthermore, don’t go about pulling my curls.” She frowned. “Though, if I had my way, I’d yank all these ridiculously tight ringlets out.”
Their mother should choose that precise moment to join them. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Your ringlets are lovely. The most perfect of all the ringlets. Tell her, Wayland.”
“They are—”
His sister gave him a look that singed and threatened all-out burning if he so much as agreed with their mother.
Their mother was new to the nobility and, in her quest for their family to fit into this new world, determined to turn Kitty into a model of ladylike decorum and propriety in every way, down to her presentation.
“And do hush,” Mother said on an outrageously loud whisper as she turned this way and that, layers upon layers of noisy crinoline crackling loud enough to be heard over the racket of the ballroom. “I’ll not have either of you offend our host and hostess.” She wrung her gloved hands together.
She, herself, was as garishly and ridiculously attired as Wayland’s unfortunate sister.
“Well, I should say it hardly makes a difference one way or another if we are invited to attend this or any other ball when I don’t even have invitations to dance.” As if to emphasize that very point, Kitty lifted the card dangling on her wrist. The neat bow twisted and twirled forlornly, a kaleidoscope of blank spaces where there should be names of a suitor or partner.
Their mother slapped at Kitty’s wrist. “Do put that down, dearest,” she whispered. “We cannot go about drawing attention to . . . to . . . that.”
That, as in the empty card which highlighted the dearth of suitors.
“I’d argue you’re making a good deal more of a show by hitting my arm and hiding that which everyone already knows, Mama,” Kitty muttered.
Their mother balked. “Mother. You know—”
“That is right. ‘Mama’ is too plebeian,” Kitty murmured in the flawless, crisp tones of a lady. “However could I have forgotten?”
Over the top of their mother’s head, brother and sister caught one another’s eyes and shared a look.
“Where are they?” Their mother wrung her hands again. “Where are they?” she repeated under her breath over and over. “I have it on authority that they’ve arrived in London. And yet they’ve not appeared at a single ball.” She was referring to none other than the Duke and Duchess of Kipling, two of the most powerful peers, and also parents to Lady Diana . . . the girl Wayland had rescued years earlier, now grown up. “Given everything we’ve done for them, the very least they might do is throw their support behind us for your sister.”
“Given everything we’ve done?” Kitty drawled. “I daresay you and I were not present on the fields of Manch— Ouch.” Their mother delivered an effectively silencing if discreet pinch to her younger child.
“Hush. Do not diminish what your brother did that day.”
What he’d done that day was coordinate to meet up with Annalee, only to have the world turn itself upside down. Running frantically in search of her, he’d come across a flipped carriage being overrun by a fleeing crowd. He’d plucked the small girl, her maid, and her mother out, managing to save three that day.
All the while, Annalee had saved herself.
Nay, there’d been nothing truly romantic in his actions that day, even if the world had been determined to see them in that most favorable of lights.
And then it was as though he’d summoned her.
A buzz filled the ballroom, that din drowning out the orchestra’s playing and ending the previous chattering of gossipy guests.
But then she always had that effect upon any room she entered.
Nor was that response born of her scandalous reputation. Not solely. Nay, the sight of her was enough to bring any room to a halt.
“I wish I might go about dressed like her,” Kitty breathed.
Their mother gasped. “Never say something so scandalous. You would never, and will never, wear something so . . . outrageous. Ever. Have I made myself clear?”
And while his mother proceeded to launch into a lecture for Kitty, Wayland found himself drinking in the sight of Annalee. Attired in a lacy, black gauze gown over a silver satin, with a silver bow tied about her that accentuated her cinched waist, she was curved in all the most splendid places for one to be curved—deeply rounded bosom, generously flared hips, and equally generous buttocks. She was a lush fertility goddess.
And with a tiara done in collet-set, table-cut rose diamonds affixed to a crown of lush golden curls hanging loose about her shoulders and waist, she was very much a queen in every way. A potent wave of lust went through him.
And God help him, Wayland proved the bastard of a friend he’d always been where Jeremy was concerned, because in that instant, he saw Annalee as she’d once been with those curls draped about her shoulders as she’d ridden atop him.
Nor was he the only one aware of her . . . of the sight she presented.
And he, who’d believed himself long past jealousy where this woman was concerned, found the lie he’d fed to himself all these years. As she glided down the stairs, the crowd parted for her, making room as if she were Athena herself, mingling with mere mortals.
And mayhap they were. Perhaps this was Annalee’s world, and the rest of them merely lived in it at her whim.
She found a place on the edge of the dance floor, alongside a pillar, and rescuing a glass of champagne from a passing servant, she sipped at that drink, all the while taking in the ballroom.
She was . . . a study in boredom. Perfect boredom.
Or mayhap it was simply that he’d once known her so well, and so the crease between her eyebrows and the pinched set to her mouth were ones he recognized from when she’d been bored at her family’s events.
“It is absolutely shameful that she is here. Shameful, I say,” his mother said. And there could be no more effective killer of lust than one’s mother’s disapproving utterings.
“I daresay she has as much right to be here as anyone else,” Kitty defended. And he’d always loved his sister, but he found he loved her all the more for that defense of Annalee. “Certainly more than we do.”
Mother gasped. “That is utterly preposterous. She may have been born an earl’s daughter, but she does not conduct herself in a way befitting a lady. Just the opposite.”
“Mother,” Wayland bit out, infusing a warning into those two syllables. He’d be damned if he tolerated his own mother’s disparagement of Annalee.
She released a beleaguered sigh. “I know. I know. Lord Jeremy is a dearest friend, which is why we tolerate her.”
Tolerate her. “We don’t . . . tolerate her,” he said gruffly. “Tolerate” would suggest they merely put up with Annalee for self-serving reasons. “She is a family friend.” And deserving of their loyalty and support, regardless of what behaviors she engaged in or events she attended or how she conducted herself.
And leaving his mother there sputtering, he set out across the room to the last person he should be joining . . . and for so many reasons.
Wayland cut his way along the sidelines of the room, bobbing and weaving between the countess’s guests in a bid to reach Annalee. No one paid his hasty strides any heed; nay, they were too focused on the same figure whom he now headed for.
Lady Annalee.
Annalee, who rarely attended proper balls or soirees, and who, when she did, did so only because of any connection she had to the host or hostess.
Except this time.
A figure stepped into his path, forcing him to a stop.
“Lord Darlington!” Mr. Chester greeted. “A pleasure to see you here.”
“Yes. Yes, always,” Wayland lied, his focus shifting beyond the greying merchant’s shoulder to Annalee. Annalee, who herself had been waylaid by another. “If you’ll . . . ?”
Alas, Chester launched into a long
-winded accounting of his latest business ventures, and Wayland silently cursed, never regretting more having committed himself to being the always respectable gentleman.
As the old fellow spoke, Wayland had to remind himself to murmur at the correct moments. And yet . . . with Chester rambling on, he frowned. Tall and wiry, with an impressive set of whiskers—if one was the facial-hair-wearing sort—Annalee’s companion, Lord Cartwright, had an arm up above the pillar so he’d framed half the room off from Annalee.
What was she doing, speaking with Cartwright? Not that it was Wayland’s business. Not anymore.
His frown deepened. But surely she wasn’t friendly with . . . with . . . that one? That cad with a reputation for being pompous as the London day was long. A pairing between Annalee and a cur like Cartwright hardly made any kind of sense.
“We do have to stick together at these affairs, don’t we?” The rotund gentleman leaned in and up, whispering, “Us self-made sorts and all.”
Self-made sorts.
Wayland bit the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out that there’d been nothing self-made in what he’d acquired. Luck. It had been pure luck where he was concerned.
His gut twisted. Not that there’d been anything lucky about that day in Manchester. More, it had been a trick of the fates that had seen Wayland titled, and yet he would have happily given it all up to return to life as it had been before that tragic day.
With Chester’s droning on and the hum of the ballroom, Wayland’s eyes were brought briefly closed as the past ushered in a remembrance.
“I will love you until the day I die, Wayland Smith,” Annalee whispered against his mouth.
“Let us hope that day isn’t for a long, long time, love . . .”
When he made himself open them, the sight to meet him wasn’t the glowing, adoring gaze of a woman who’d always loved him more than he’d deserved . . . but that same woman, now standing too close to a man who deserved her even less.
Just then, Cartwright’s gaze dipped low, and the bastard made no attempt to conceal his interest in her daring neckline. Whatever the lady said raised a booming laugh from the bounder.
A low growl worked its way up his chest.
“Might I introduce you to my wife and daughter?” Mr. Chester was saying.
“If you’ll excuse me?” Wayland said curtly and with a brusqueness that brought the other man up short for a moment.
“Of course. Of—”
Wayland was already stepping around the merchant. This time, he marched with purpose, refusing to be waylaid by those guests whom he’d otherwise never have cut, powerful lords whose approval he’d sought so that his family might achieve the respect not automatically afforded them because of their birthright.
“Perhaps we might find a . . . fountain through which to waltz together, sweet.” The gentleman danced a bold finger along the sleeve of her dress.
A blanket of rage fell over Wayland’s vision, a crimson-black veil the color of death and blood that he’d like to pound the other man into. And it was a fury that came from Wayland’s friendship with Jeremy, and his devotion to Annalee’s family.
“I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less,” Annalee drawled, a study in boredom that she elevated with a practiced yawn, and some of Wayland’s anger dissipated under that bold and beautiful rejection of the uncouth lout.
Cartwright’s cheeks went florid. “Given your predilection for dancing in fountains during proper affairs, I’d daresay a jaunt out with me would be more to your—”
“The lady said no,” Wayland said coolly, and the pair whipped about to face him. “And lest you make any more of an ass of yourself than you already are or have, might I suggest you take that dip in a fountain by yourself?”
The dull flush on the other man’s too-sharp cheeks grew heavier. “Shove off, Darlington. The lady doesn’t have any interest in, or need of, you,” Lord Cartwright said, curling back his lip in a sneer.
“Ah, but she hasn’t said as much to me, and she has given every indication that she wants nothing to do with you,” Wayland drawled.
Cartwright looked down his long, noble nose at Wayland. “Apparently you’re not as nice a fellow as the papers paint you to be, eh?”
Wayland took a step closer so the shorter man had no choice but to look up. “And this from a man who doesn’t know how to honor the word ‘no’ from a lady.”
The other man’s cheeks grew splotchy, and he tripped over himself in a bid to put space between him and Wayland. Then, turning on his heel, Cartwright raced off.
The moment he’d gone, with her champagne flute dangling awkwardly between her fingers, Annalee gave a little clap. “Impressive stuff, Wayland. Well done.” She leaned close. “Defending my honor, and publicly,” she purred, running a finger along his lapel. “I am touched.”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye. Had she thought he’d not defend her against the scurrilous pursuit of a man in whom she’d revealed no interest? Or was it simply that she made light of him? “Were the roles reversed and my sister found herself so accosted, Jeremy would have responded exactly as I’ve done.” It was not untrue, but it was also not the sole reason he’d involved himself.
Annalee’s lush mouth formed a perfect pout, lips that made a man imagine any manner of wicked thoughts for them, that flesh parted and wrapped about his length. An imagining made all the more real by the memories he carried still of her taking him in that hot, moist cavern.
“My big brother’s best friend coming to my rescue.” Annalee gave him an up-and-down look filled with so much mockery and judgment he knew precisely how Cartwright had felt to be shredded by her. “How . . . honorable, my lord.”
And Wayland’s ears went hot in that moment as she rightly called him out. Wayland, the man who’d bedded his best friend’s sister. More times than he could remember . . . and then coordinated to meet with her in Manchester.
The lady made to leave.
“It’s not because of your brother,” he said gruffly, and that managed to stop her retreat. Though everything in this moment was confused. Perhaps he should have just let her to the opinion she’d formed, and they could have gone their own ways, as they’d done since Manchester, instead of him admitting that she was, in fact, the reason for his intervention.
Annalee turned back slowly. “Ohh?”
“Come, Annalee. You know we are . . . friends.” Except, was that what they really were? Certainly, it was what they’d once been.
“Friends?” That syllable rolled off her tongue like a sinful invitation.
Sadness cleaved his chest. For all that had come to pass between them, and all the tragedy and heartbreak that had divided them, what right did he have to claim that place of friendship? To her . . . or her family?
“I’m teasing, Way,” she said, punching him lightly in the arm in a lighthearted gesture that drove away some of the tension, bringing them back to a place of familiarity and recalling the friendship they’d been speaking of. “I know you’re a friend.”
She spoke with the ease of a woman who believed those words.
And yet, had he truly been a friend to her in a long while? Even when he’d sought her out at Jeremy’s betrothal ball, he’d been motivated by his loyalty to the lady’s brother.
Annalee gave a roll of her eyes. “Oh, stop.”
He bristled. “I’ve said nothing,” he said indignantly.
“You didn’t need to. You’ve gone all melancholy. Your lips are drawn, and your muscles all bunched.” She discreetly dusted her fingers along his coat sleeve.
Those muscles jumped reflexively at a touch his body had never been able to not respond to. Annalee gave him a knowing smile.
From her tempting, barely there caress on down to her words, it was unnerving to have become more strangers than anything these past years, and yet to have her still know him so very well. Whereas Wayland? He couldn’t make out heads or tails or up or down or left or right where Lady Annal
ee was concerned.
Annalee went about sipping her champagne and eyeing the crowd once more. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, licking a remnant of those bubbling spirits from the left corner of her lower lip.
He followed that gesture. “What is it?” he managed, completely captivated by that delicate pink flesh. Hell, the ballroom could have been on fire and he would have stood there, consumed, before he could pull himself away. But then Annalee had always been a master when it came to seducing him with subtleties. With . . . anything, really. Where the other was concerned, they’d both been skilled in that regard.
“Your mother.”
The last thing he cared to think about in this moment was . . . his mother.
“She quite disapproves,” Annalee murmured from the corner of her mouth.
“Not at all. She’s . . . she’s . . .” Yes, there could be no disputing or doubting; his mother was less than pleased.
Annalee winged up an eyebrow. “Usually glowering?”
“It could be the countess’s lemonade,” he pointed out, discreetly motioning to the untouched glass held in his mother’s hand.
An adorable little snort filtered past her lips.
“It could be,” he said as they engaged in a private little jest about his glowering mama across the room. “Why, she does look like she’s sucked a lemon.”
Joining in the false somber contemplation, Annalee captured her chin between her thumb and forefinger and made a show of studying Wayland’s mother. “Yes. Yes. I daresay, you might be right. There’s something—”
“Tart?”
“—about her. Hmm. Yes . . . exactly that! Why, even—”
“Sour-faced?”
Even clear across the room, he made out the way his mother’s eyes bulged.
He and Annalee shared a smile . . . a real one. A private one that came from a teasing and mirth they’d shared long, long ago.
A Wanton for All Seasons Page 9