A Wanton for All Seasons

by Caldwell, Christi

  Her gaze locked on the mural of the goddess Methe. In one hand she hoisted a glass of wine in salute to the revelry unfolding, while her other fingers were twined with Dionysus’s. Together, they celebrated with Amphictyonis, that deity of wine and friendship.

  What is honorable about what you do, Annalee?

  And because of who she was, who she’d become, Wayland would bar his sister entry to the Mismatch. And that, oddly, hurt the most of all. That had she been just Sylvia or some other respected lady, he’d not only consent but also would likely gladly have Kitty mingle with the Mismatch members. And now Kitty should pay the price, being denied the opportunity to grow and challenge and be challenged by women who’d said “enough” to society’s institutions . . . because of Annalee.

  Wrenching her stare away, Annalee curled onto her side and directed her attention to the window, a safer place that didn’t conjure her life that Wayland saw as a failing.

  Why should she care anyway? She, who didn’t give a goddamn what anyone thought of her? She, who’d deliberately built herself up so that she couldn’t or wouldn’t care?

  Only to find that . . . she’d not done such an impressive job with those defenses as she’d thought. Not such an impressive job, after all. Not when Wayland had so easily penetrated them, raising insecurities she’d not known she’d possessed. Weaknesses she’d not known she had.

  Mayhap it was because of the one who’d called her out, challenging her.

  Mayhap it was because a lifetime ago, he’d been her best friend and her lover, and the one man whom she’d entertained marrying. Nay, the man whom she’d been determined to marry. Even if her parents would have fought that match—as she knew they would have. Even if Jeremy would have likely resisted it, too. She and Wayland had been fated for one another.

  Or that was what she’d told herself for so long, what she’d believed for so long. What a naive fool she’d been.

  RapRapRap.

  There wasn’t a pause long enough for her to utter an “enter” before the door opened and then closed.

  There came a light tread that she knew too well, even before the young woman identified herself.

  Valerie’s black skirts came into direct line with Annalee’s vision. “Are you jug bitten?” Her friend’s question came without recrimination. It was so very matter-of-fact, and somehow . . . all the worse for it.

  “No.”

  Annalee flipped onto her back, but that proved the wrong direction to look, as Dionysus and Methe partnered with Amphictyonis. With a sigh, Annalee rolled the other way.

  “You do know you are late. You’re never late. Even when foxed.”

  Which she so often was.

  The mattress dipped as Valerie set herself on the edge, and Annalee rolled back. “It is a terrible idea.”

  Her friend’s golden brows dipped a fraction. “Being in your cups? I must admit I’ve never understood your love of sp—”

  “No. Not that.” Annalee’s love of spirits, as her friend referred to it, wasn’t what she spoke of. Though if she were discussing that, she’d explain it was more a need than a wish. She sat up quickly. “My being part of the Mismatch. I’m a terrible fit,” she went on, and as she spoke, her words all tripped and rolled together. “The key piece is allowing women a forum to come together and fight for a better place for themselves in the world, and yet, as long as I’m here, I’m an impediment to that. Ladies will continue to be barred, and after last night . . .”

  “Ah, the fight.”

  Her friend knew about it. Had no doubt read about it. But then, if just being in the same modiste’s as he and his sister had been a source of scandal, all of London was surely whispering about that exchange in the duke’s corridor. “I am a magnet for scandal,” she said, flipping once more, lying on her back.

  “That’s never bothered you before,” Valerie pointed out, not attempting to deny Annalee’s description of herself, and it was that honesty she so loved her friend for. “Should I . . . ask what the fight was over?”

  Annalee made herself sit up; drawing her knees close, she folded her arms around them. “A gentleman accosted me. Wayland interfered . . . beating the baron quite viciously.”

  “Good,” Valerie said without hesitation.

  And shamefully, in that moment . . . it . . . had felt good to have someone who believed her worthy of defending. Even if she wasn’t. Wayland had. And she’d ruined him.

  “You do know staying in here will not undo what’s happened?”

  “I know that.” That was, however, not the reason she was here. Not really.

  There was only one certainty. She couldn’t remain on Waverton Street. She had to leave. At least until Sylvia returned. And coward that she was, she didn’t want to climb out of this bed and go down to the meeting and share this with the friends she’d come to love. Women she now needed to protect. Why, if Wayland, who’d once loved her, refused to let his sister join their ranks, what chance did they have for the others?

  And so Annalee made herself get out of bed and, with Valerie’s help, rushed swiftly through her ablutions and made her way downstairs.

  The moment she stepped inside . . . Annalee froze.

  Her eyes went to the figure in the middle of the room, engaged in a discussion with the Kearsley sisters.

  “Kitty is here,” Annalee whispered.

  “Should she not be?” Confusion wreathed Valerie’s query.

  As though she’d sensed she was being discussed, the other young woman looked over. The girl’s entire face lit as she waved at Annalee and then quit the side of the Kearsley sisters to join Annalee and Valerie.

  “It is . . . so very good to see you,” Annalee said. For now. For as long as she was able to remain without her family’s interference. “I didn’t expect you would be here.” Another wave of guilt twisted at her belly.

  Kitty’s brow wrinkled. “And whyever not?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” Annalee floundered, caught between not wanting to say too much as to what she’d suspected about Wayland, and also not wanting to be responsible for creating a potential rift between brother and sister.

  Understanding filled Kitty’s brown eyes. “Ahh, you mean you thought I wouldn’t come today because of Wayland.”

  That was precisely what she’d thought. It really wasn’t her place to question and yet . . . “You defied him, then.”

  “My brother?” Kitty snorted. “Hardly. Not that I wouldn’t if the situation required it,” the spirited young girl tacked on. “But it was not necessary.” Her smile widened, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “This time. This morning, Wayland sent me on my way with his blessing and an urging to have fun.”

  Annalee’s heart slowed, then resumed a rapid rate. “He . . . did?” Annalee couldn’t contain the breathless quality of that question that slipped from her. She felt Valerie’s eyes form pinpricks as she narrowed her gaze upon her, but couldn’t bring herself to care. He’d . . . not tried to interfere as so many oppressive papas and brothers had?

  “Oh, yes,” Kitty said, and proceeded to fish around inside her reticule, only half attending to Annalee. And turned upside down by the information the young lady now shared, Annalee was grateful for her distracted movements. “And not only that, he also even offered to distract Mama, falling on the sword so I might make my escape. And if that isn’t a sacrifice, I don’t know what is,” Kitty said, adding that last part under her breath. “Ah, here it is!” She produced her notebook, and waved it about.

  Let it go.

  It doesn’t matter that Wayland hadn’t proven as overbearing and insufferable as most of the other male figures associated with the women in the Mismatch Society.

  All that mattered was that Kitty was here now and they were free to begin the day’s meeting.

  Only, Annalee could not free herself of the curiosity. “But . . . I believed Way—the baron did not approve.” Or perhaps it is only you whom he takes exception with . . .

  “Oh, Wa
yland does not want me to take part in”—the girl rolled her eyes—“scandalous activities. He’s concerned because, well, you know how he now worries after his reputation and our reputation. But no . . . for all his commitment to propriety, he remains more committed to not attempting to live my life for me.” The younger girl leaned in close, whispering, “In fact, I believe Wayland likes to think himself different from how he used to be. But he’s not. He’s the same man who always appreciated a good challenge to the rule of order and inequity in the world.”

  With every word uttered, Annalee’s heart pounded all the harder, her pulse beating loud in her ears. And he’d also known his sister was suffering for friends.

  Cora Kearsley joined them.

  “Cora, you remember Miss Kitty Smith,” Annalee said.

  The young ladies exchanged greetings, and in a moment it was as though they were fast friends. “You must borrow my copy,” Cora was saying. She waved the little leather volume and gave a sly look. “Why, I’ve already read it.” She grinned. “Twice!”

  And as they laughed, Annalee’s heart continued swelling at Wayland’s having supported her society, and for his having supported Kitty and their friendship.

  “I am ever so . . .” Kitty’s words slowed. “Whatever is she doing here?” she blurted.

  Perplexed by that abrupt turn, Annalee followed the other woman’s focus to the front of the room. Or rather, to the tableau at the front of the room. Wearing white silk skirts with an enormous train, and a tiara stuffed with a feather that gave her height an ostrich would envy, a young lady with a bevy of servants entered the parlor, ushering in a brief, noticeable silence followed by whispers. Annalee’s stomach muscles clenched tight.

  Valerie rushed off to greet the elegant guest.

  “Whoever is that?” Cora asked.

  Kitty lowered her voice. “That is none other than the Lady Diana Regan . . .” Wayland’s sister pointed her eyes toward the ceiling.

  The Lady Diana Regan.

  Kitty slid closer, angling her body in such a way that she turned her back to the woman in question and conversed in private with Annalee and Cora. “Surely you know of her . . .” As Kitty spoke to Cora, her voice wove in and out of focus for Annalee with only certain words periodically registering.

  From her lungs on down to her toes, every muscle clenched and squeezed in a shock of unexpected pain. Having seen her before, having conversed with the young lady in the modiste’s, proved so very different from this. Now.

  That day, Annalee and Wayland had gotten on as they’d always done before Peterloo, teasing and so very . . . comfortable with one another. She’d not let herself imagine anything more between him and the young woman.

  Mayhap it was because it had been easier not to. Mayhap she’d let herself be blinded to that which her eyes had no wish to see.

  But now, with Lady Diana laying command of Annalee’s parlor and Mismatch Society, there could be no hiding or escaping. Particularly not in light of Wayland’s rejection.

  “King’s goddaughter, and she takes care to be sure that everyone knows it,” Kitty was saying. “Do you know what I think?” she whispered loudly.

  Cora leaned in. “Yes?”

  Annalee made herself shake her head, riveted by that regal command of the room. She found herself equal parts admiring that girl for such authority and unnerved by that strength. And more than a bit wanting to cry. Was there any wondering now the reason Wayland had denied Annalee’s request?

  Lady Diana lifted her head in acknowledgment of those women she passed. Periodically she’d pause and speak, exchanging brief pleasantries, before sweeping off.

  “Years ago she got it into her head that there’s a romantic connection . . .”

  Annalee had the sudden urge to vomit. Or drink.

  Nay, drinking was the better course. It was always the more steadying one.

  She searched about for her flask, finding it—

  “Do not look now,” Kitty muttered in hushed tones just as Annalee grabbed the silver jug of whiskey.

  “Kitty, dearest,” Lady Diana greeted in elevated, crisp English to rival the queen’s, lifting her head. “It is always a pleasure to see you.” Diamonds dripped from her dress and ears and headdress. She exuded a wealth and extravagance most young ladies reserved for their Come Outs, never again rising to the level at which this woman wore and flaunted her prestige.

  “The same,” Kitty said with a flatness that filled her tonality with an absolute insincerity. Wayland’s sister lifted her notebook and made a show of flipping through those pages.

  The Duke of Kipling’s daughter slid her focus back to Annalee. “If I may, Kitty . . . and Kitty’s friend?” None would have ever mistaken the young woman’s words for anything other than the order they were. “Lady Annalee, we meet again.”

  It did not escape Annalee’s notice that the other young woman hadn’t mentioned it as being any sort of pleasure to be in her company.

  Kitty hesitated, vacillating between standing shoulder to shoulder with Annalee and escaping.

  Annalee knew it was certainly the latter, because she had that same desire to flee.

  In the end, Kitty and Cora dropped a quick curtsy and bustled off.

  Not that Annalee would ever blame them.

  Lucky girls.

  The moment they’d gone, Diana adjusted her full-length satin gloves. Gloves that were entirely too formal for the time of day, and for the meeting. But then, so was the silly—if extravagant—train now being hoisted up by two servants. Suddenly, Lady Diana gave a smart clap. Her lady’s maid brought forward her train and draped it over the young lady’s forearm before curtsying and retreating several paces.

  “I have . . . recently heard much about you, Lady Annalee,” the girl said the moment they were alone.

  “Most people have,” she said dryly, and winked.

  Lady Diana’s nostrils flared the tiniest fraction in hint of her disdain. “Yes, well, that is one of the reasons I am here . . . I have heard much about your . . . club.” She flicked her gaze about the room to the conversing women before recalling her focus over to Annalee.

  “We are a society,” Annalee said.

  “Is there a difference?”

  It was the first true hint of curiosity, and because of it Annalee found herself releasing some of the tension that had dogged her since the girl had arrived. “Yes,” she explained. “To the women here there is. A club is a smaller group dedicated to entertainment and the amusement of its members. A society—our society—is an organization dedicated to the purpose of larger goals than simple pleasures as found in those clubs of White’s or Brooke’s.”

  “Hmm. Yes, anyway, I’m quite friendly with the Smith family.”

  “Your relationship with Miss Smith positively exuded warmth,” Annalee said, keeping her features deadpan. The duke’s daughter had all but ordered Kitty gone, treating her like the inferior she clearly saw her as.

  “Indeed.” Lady Diana adjusted her already perfectly straight diamond tiara. “I have a way of making all young ladies feel welcome.”

  Annalee strangled on a laugh, converting it to a cough that she caught in her fist. “Forgive me. I . . . had something in my throat.” It wasn’t untrue. Disbelief and humor had both set out to choke her.

  The young woman gave her a strange look.

  Annalee cleared her throat. “Forgive me. You were saying . . .”

  From across the room, Valerie caught her eye and jabbed a finger to the clock at the mantel. “Late. We. Are. Late,” her friend mouthed perfectly.

  And even as there was nothing she’d like more than to end this exchange with this woman, part of her remained compelled by whatever it was she’d come here to say.

  “Do you know how Wayland and I met?” Lady Diana asked suddenly and so unexpectedly that Annalee froze.

  Wayland. The girl called him by his given name. Given the ceremony the lady stood on from appearance to presentation, Lady Diana’s use of that
given name proved all the more . . . telling of their connection. Somehow the intimacy of that proved far . . . closer, and far more agonizing for it.

  Agonizing? You silly twit. Wayland, Lord Darling, is free to carry on with whom he would whenever he would. Including this five-feet-nothing, white-skirt-wearing proper miss, whom he’d saved and earned a title for.

  A coveted title he’d always yearned for . . . that hadn’t mattered a jot to Annalee. But it had to him, and this lily-white, innocent miss with her flawless ringlets and flawless skin . . . It would matter to her, too.

  “My lady?”

  Annalee started from that rumble of thoughts, all mixed together. “Annalee,” she supplied. “You should call me Annalee.”

  Lady Diana smiled, a measured one that highlighted her dimples but did not crease her eyes or mouth with laugh lines. Everything about her was practiced. “I declare we shall be friends, then.” Friends. Annalee had made it a point of counting as friends only those who’d met here with kindness and had spared her from the judgment she was so used to having heaped upon her for behaving . . . well, exactly as she chose to behave. “Might we . . . take a turn about the room?”

  Annalee hesitated a moment, before accepting that proffered arm.

  “It is my understanding you are . . . close with Wayland. Or that you have been.” The young woman cast a glance her way. “Yes?”

  Yes, indeed.

  What in hell was Annalee to say to this?

  Gone was any hint of warmth that had been there when they’d first met at the modiste’s.

  And it was as they made a pass halfway about the room that she realized one key detail where Lady Diana was concerned: Annalee had underestimated her. The kitten had claws, and she was prepared to use them. And had it been any other woman, and any other man whom they were discussing, well, then Annalee would have admired her that show of spirit and character.

  That it was this woman, however, and Wayland whom she’d sought her out to discuss, only brought Annalee’s back—and guard—up. “Forgive me, I didn’t realize a response was expected of me here.”