A Wanton for All Seasons

by Caldwell, Christi

  If she were as selfish as the world believed, she would have asked him to stay.

  Instead, she’d sent him on his way, for him . . . and his family.

  And now had the pleasure of watching Wayland charm that very innocent, stunningly beautiful diamond.

  Ah, this was the misery she’d expected for the night.

  “How could you?” her mother clipped out.

  And more misery on top of it. At some point the countess had extricated herself from her guests and found time to greet her daughter.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Mother,” Annalee drawled.

  “I specifically told you no, Annalee Elise.”

  Yes, her own mother had rejected her request to attend a respectable affair she was hosting. Annalee draped an arm about her mother’s shoulders—narrow, almost bony shoulders that tensed. “Ah, in fairness, Mama, you didn’t tell me anything. You sent a note.”

  The countess squirmed and shrugged to be free of her touch. “Do not be common.”

  Annalee touched a finger to her chin, and sticking out a foot, she fashioned her features into a contemplative mask. “Tell me, do you take familial affection to be as grievous an offense as indulging in spirits and smoking cheroots?”

  Color splashed her mother’s high cheekbones. “I do not find you amusing. Having you about brings nothing but problems for this family.”

  “Because I’m amusing?”

  “Because you cannot help but find yourself in a scandal,” she said on a furious whisper. “You continually bring shame and humiliation to this family. It wasn’t enough that you ruined your brother’s betrothal ball. There is the scandal you dragged Lord Darlington into as well.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she’d in fact not dragged him into that one. That he’d come hurtling, leaping, and bounding all the way forward himself. But she swallowed the words, ones that would put any part of what had transpired last evening in Wayland’s lap. Not when he’d defended her.

  “Fighting Lord Welles as he did has only set tongues to wagging for him and his family now. There are those who automatically assume he did so because he is involved with you, instead of realizing his deep devotion to Jeremy and this family, and now the Duke and Duchess of Kipling have their eyes upon our family, and unfavorably, because they see you as a threat to their families’ partnership.”

  Their families’ . . . partnership.

  As in Wayland and the Lady Diana.

  Her gaze slipped across the room to where he now stood speaking with the lady in question.

  It made sense.

  The papers had abounded with tales of the heroism of a young man who’d put himself between the angry masses and an overturned carriage, and plucked each beloved member of the duke’s family from it and seen them to safety. Now, the girl had grown up, and in properness and decorum, the lady was Wayland’s match in every way.

  Annalee knew that. She’d also accepted long, long ago that anything and everything of a romantic nature between her and Wayland had died as sure a death as the souls who’d been cut down on the fields of Manchester.

  Just then, the young lady rested her fingertips upon Wayland’s sleeve and leaned up and close, whispering something into his ear, and Annalee wrenched her stare away from that handsome pair.

  “It is not my intention to bring shame or scandal this night,” Annalee said, infusing a solemnity into that promise. “I will be a model of propriety.” That was, after all, the goal. She crossed an X over her chest. “You have my promise.”

  Her mother’s brows came together. “Why are you so determined to be here?” And then she froze, doing a hurried search of the room. “If you dare say you’re intending to meet one of the gentlemen present . . . ,” she muttered.

  “Tsk, tsk. Come, Mother, you know I’d never dare engage in a tryst with one of the staid fellows you’ve invited.”

  Except . . . unbidden, her gaze slipped across the room, over to Wayland. Her former lover . . . and love.

  Wayland, who was also now thoroughly engrossed in discourse with the dainty, delicate, and undoubtedly innocent Lady Diana.

  “You need to leave.”

  Annalee recoiled. She’d toss her out. Her own mother. Hurt and heartbreak jolted through her. Even as she shouldn’t be surprised. Even as she knew her family despised her and was ashamed of her.

  Mustering all the pride she could, Annalee tipped her chin up a notch and made her way through the crowded music room, stares following her as she went.

  Since Peterloo, Annalee had made many marches of shame—most of them deserved after some scandal she’d caused or improper situation she’d found herself in. But never before had she been set to walking by her own mother. This really was the unkindest cut of them all.

  And then, Wayland and his Lady Diana’s gazes landed on Annalee.

  She smiled at that happy couple and lifted her hand in a wave.

  God, she’d faced horrible walks before—sloppy, drunken ones. Ones with cruel insults hurled in the form of jeers as she’d passed, but none of those had ever felt . . . like this.

  Perhaps it was because her own mother was behind her ejection.

  Or perhaps it was because Wayland was witness to it.

  Either way, she’d never found herself more grateful to be free of a room than she was the moment she reached the foyer. The butler, Tanning, her family’s oldest servant, stood there in wait with a sad glimmer in his kindly eyes and her cloak in hand.

  Ah, so there’d been no chance of her staying. Her mother had always planned to turn her out. “My lady,” he murmured as he helped her into the garment.

  She climbed her gaze to the balustrade above.

  “Her Ladyship has instructed Lady Harlow’s governess that the little lady is to remain in her rooms.”

  Annalee’s entire chest hurt.

  So she’d not even be permitted to see Harlow this night.

  All this had been for naught.

  “I, for one, think every event is more festive for your presence, my lady,” he whispered. Some inches shorter than herself, his shoulders, stooped with age, made the old servant even smaller. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek.

  He immediately blushed.

  “I fear I’ll scandalize the household and cost you your post if you are discovered with a kiss from the infamous Lady Annalee,” she whispered.

  He leaned in. “It will have been worth it,” he returned in nearly noiseless tones. He winked.

  Resisting the urge to break down crying, she patted the old servant affectionately on his lapels.

  “Thank you, Tanning,” she said, her throat clogged with tears, and stepped outside.

  Just down the street, a carriage rolled closer toward Annalee’s family’s household . . . and Annalee’s stomach sank as her gaze landed on the familiar crest—the Duke and Duchess of Wingate.

  Annalee bit her lower lip. Now her friend would arrive. But then, what right did Annalee have to expect anything from the other woman? Lila had been the one with her that day at Peterloo—because of Annalee. Oh, Lila had been the one to ultimately suggest that visit, but Annalee had planted the seeds, talking about the grand event, enticing her to go, so that Annalee could, in turn, meet Wayland there. And not so very long ago Lila had retreated from the world . . . and just as Wayland had, she’d left Annalee alone, trying to figure out how to navigate the hell of this new existence.

  Hurrying down the steps, Annalee headed quickly for her waiting carriage. Not wanting to face the other woman, a person who not so very long ago had praised Annalee for having gotten on so well after Peterloo.

  A panicky whimper gurgled up her throat.

  How damned laughable that was . . . How bloody wrong Lila had been.

  For it had been Lila who’d gotten her life in order. Just as Wayland had.

  Annalee was the only one still floundering to find her way back.

  “Annaleeeee!”

  Keep walki
ng.

  Keep walking.

  It would be all too easy, after all, to pretend she hadn’t heard Lila calling. Because goddamn it, Annalee didn’t want to see her other friend who’d lived through the hell she had and managed to pull herself up and be an actual person.

  Alas, she ground her feet to a stop on the pavement and made herself face Lila.

  Lila reached Annalee’s side, the lady’s husband hanging back.

  “Forgive me,” Lila said, out of breath, her chest heaving. “Hugh and I were late.” A blush filled the other woman’s cheeks.

  Hugh and I were late . . .

  Once, Lila had been the friend whom Annalee had confided nearly everything in. All that had ceased, and those confidences had become even fewer since Lila had put her life in order and fallen in love. “It is fine,” Annalee murmured softly. She’d not begrudge the other woman the happiness . . . or connection . . . she’d found. It didn’t mean, however, that she could stop herself from envying that lifeline, either. “I was just leaving.” Which seemed exceedingly more vital now, when presented with all the reminders of her great failings.

  Lila frowned. “Please, do not. I did not mean to leave you in there, all alone. I’m so glad I caught you before you left.”

  Before she left . . .

  Lila reached for Annalee’s hand. To lead her back inside?

  A little giggle built in her chest, and she held her fingers out of reach. “I didn’t leave.”

  Confusion wreathed her friend’s brow as her arm dropped uselessly to her side. “I don’t . . . understand?”

  She didn’t understand. But then, wasn’t that the crux of Annalee’s whole miserable, pitiable existence? Her patience snapped. “I was thrown out,” she cried, her heart racing. “My mother had me shown the door in the middle of it all.”

  Lila sank back. “Annalee,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  Sorry.

  So was Annalee. About so much.

  “She wasn’t wrong,” Annalee stammered. “I am a mess.”

  “The women in the society adore you,” Lila said, taking her hands. “You bring joy to so many.”

  “I’m an oddity. They admire me because I do things that they don’t and shouldn’t do.” Her voice grew pitched. “But the truth is, Lila,” she cried, “I’m not okay. I’m not dealing with Peterloo well, like you once said . . . like you think. And so if you and the ladies would just stop admiring me for flouting the rules of society, because I’m a bloody mess.” She wrenched her hands from Lila’s and took off racing for her carriage.

  “Annalee!” her friend cried. “Please . . . come back.”

  Calling up orders to her driver, Annalee allowed a servant to help her inside.

  Following Peterloo, there’d been only one place Annalee had been able to go, one person she’d been able to turn to . . . at any time.

  And never more had she been in need of that safe space than she was at this moment.

  A short while later, her carriage hadn’t even rocked to a full stop before Annalee was tossing open the door and jumping down.

  Just in time.

  Cloak donned, hat upon his head, Lord Willoughby stood on the steps, the door still hanging half-open behind him. “I am headed—”

  Marching up the steps, Annalee gripped her longtime friend by the arm and steered him back inside.

  “Out,” he said under his breath.

  “Pipe down, Willoughby,” she muttered, storming his household. The moment she was inside, Annalee shrugged out of her cloak.

  A strapping footman was immediately there, relieving her of the article.

  “I gather I am not going out, then,” Willoughby said with a sigh. He gave his head butler a look and then a slight nod.

  The servant instantly pushed the door shut behind them.

  She’d never been turned away. He’d never turned her away. Ever. And she didn’t expect him to now. That was the manner of friend he’d been through the years, and it was the manner of friend she needed, especially now. Following her visit with the latest Mismatch Society member, the perfectly perfect and prim Lady Diana and—had Annalee already said “perfect”? Because that’s what the lady was. Grinding her teeth, Annalee cut a path through Willoughby’s household, heading straightaway to the room she was most familiar with in this posh residence.

  The moment she reached the billiards room, Annalee made for the sideboard. She stopped before it, pausing to eye the sparkling, glittering crystal perfection contained upon that smooth mahogany surface. Glorious perfection.

  Peeling off her gloves, Annalee tossed them atop the velvet-lined billiards table and turned all her attention back to her drink selection.

  Settling upon a bottle of whiskey, she grabbed a glass and poured herself several fingerfuls; the tinkling of crystal touching crystal, and the smooth stream of liquid pouring, had the same soothing effect as a good cheroot.

  Or it always had.

  Not this time.

  Annalee pushed the door shut. “Take off your cloak; you’re not going out.”

  He smirked, his fingers making quick work of the clasp.

  “It’s not that kind of visit,” she snapped.

  “Unfortunate that. I’ve never seen you in such a state, love,” he drawled, leaning against the heavy oak panel.

  Which was saying a good deal, given he’d seen her in nearly every state, even retching over a chamber pot from a night of too much drink.

  “We have a new member.”

  He gave her a look.

  She tossed up her hands, her quick movement sending liquid spilling over the rim of her glass and spattering the floor. “The Mismatch Society. What else would I be talking about?”

  “I really have no idea, love.” He paused. “And that is problematic.”

  “No. Yes. No.”

  He winged a chestnut eyebrow.

  Yes, it absolutely was.

  “She is perfectly ladylike.”

  “Who?”

  “Lady Diana.” Her mouth tightened in the corners in a reflexive scowl.

  Willoughby shuddered. “God forbid. I’m well aware of the lady’s reputation. With necklines that nearly reach her chin and a properness not even the sternest matrons could muster, she doesn’t fit with your usual scandalous members.”

  God love him for attempting to follow, and yet . . . Annalee bristled. “We’re not all scandalous. There are the Kearsley sisters, and the Gatelys and Sylvia.” She frowned. Come to think of it, aside from the Countess of Waterson, a former courtesan and music hall owner, just she and Valerie had reputations that preceded them.

  “So if the lady is not one you wish to have amongst your members, then don’t.” Willoughby glanced at his timepiece.

  “Do you have somewhere to be, Wills?” she snapped.

  He immediately dropped the chain. “I wouldn’t dream of it, dearest.”

  Holding out her filled glass, she pointed it in Willoughby’s direction. “Do you know the problem with being a lady?”

  “I could only begin to guess,” he drawled from the other side of the table.

  “The expectations. Everyone expects us to be a certain way and behave a certain way. But what is worse, Willoughby,” she whispered, “is the ladies who allow themselves to be so changed.” As she’d once allowed herself to be. And now she was doing it again . . . for Sylvia, of course. For their membership. But she was changing, and didn’t recognize herself. And today had only highlighted . . . no matter how much she did manage to change, she still would never be . . . Lady Diana. “And what is it for?”

  “The ladies allow themselves to be changed,” he agreed. “Unlike you, love,” he said without recrimination. Following Peterloo, he’d been the first friend she’d found. At a club not fit for any lady, it had been Annalee’s first foray into the world of sin and wickedness. When a drunken Lord Gravens had attempted to take that which she’d been unwilling to give, Willoughby had been there . . . From that moment on, he’d taken her un
der his wing and safely opened up that world to her. Over the years, their relationship had been a friendship, but also one that blurred and straddled the line of lovers.

  “I wasn’t always this way,” she said, more to herself. Nay, there’d been a time when she’d been bright-eyed . . . and innocent. Innocent in every way. She’d been that, too.

  “I couldn’t imagine you any other way than as you are now, Anna.”

  Willoughby’s words should be a compliment, particularly coming from a man who detested innocence even more than Annalee.

  Odd, that it should strike a pang in her chest. Because, well, goddamn it, Annalee didn’t want to be like the others. She wanted to be her own woman. Not the simpering debutante and the revered lady lords sought to marry. Lords like Darlington, who cared so very much about his title and his reputation, and such a man would countenance a life and a future with only a flawless, biddable, and unsullied-in-every-way lady. One such as Lady Diana.

  Annalee tossed back her drink, grimacing at that enormous swallow which burnt her throat.

  “What is it, love?”

  She started, having failed to hear Willoughby’s approach. “Have you come for a diversion?” He lowered his lips to her neck, and Annalee briefly closed her eyes, tilting her head to allow him that access he sought. He brushed a kiss there. How many times had she come here in search of the very distraction he now offered? And yet, even with his breath, hot and brandy-tinged, a sough upon her skin, this wasn’t why she’d come. Not this time.

  She drew back slightly, eluding his efforts. “Darlington.”

  Willoughby paused, his mouth still close to her skin. “Tsk, tsk. Calling me by the wrong name, love. Even for you, that’s bad form.”

  She grimaced. “No. No. I was . . .” She caught the teasing glimmer in his eyes. “I was speaking about Darlington.”

  Willoughby straightened. “I assure you, you’re looking in the wrong household if you think I’d have Darlington, or anyone like him, here.” He chuckled quietly, and Annalee felt the stirrings of annoyance at that jaded condescension.

  Why? Why, when she’d silently jeered and mocked Wayland through the years? All the changes he’d undergone from a blacksmith’s bold, determined-to-rise-up-and-change-the-world son to a tied-up, proper-in-every-way baron?