A Wanton for All Seasons

by Caldwell, Christi

  Mayhap, however, it had been easier to pass judgment upon him than accept he was all that was good and honorable while she’d made a full descent into sin and sinning.

  “What is it, Annalee?”

  “I don’t like him.” But that isn’t altogether true, a voice taunted. You like him just fine. You always have.

  “I know that.”

  He knew that. “You never asked why.”

  Willoughby shrugged. “It never seemed like my place.”

  It never seemed like his place.

  And she appreciated that. Or she had. He’d never probed too deeply. Not very deeply at all.

  Unlike Wayland, who, in this recent time together, had put any number of questions and challenges to Annalee. Wayland, who’d probed and pressed her about how she’d lived, forcing her to think about decisions she’d made, and making her think about whether this was the life she wished for herself.

  Of course it was. Of course there was only one life for her, anymore. She’d picked a path, and this was the road she now traveled. But that . . . he’d asked her. That he made her think and challenged her . . . Wasn’t that . . . friendship?

  It was all so confused. Everything in her mind.

  She dug her fingertips into her temples and began to pace. But then, Wayland had always flipped her thoughts and world upside down. “He was the one,” she said.

  Willoughby stilled.

  “At Peterloo,” she clarified, even as she turned and caught the unlikely-for-him gravity stamped in his features, and knew he knew. “I was . . .”

  “Meeting him,” he murmured. “The dashing love of your life.”

  “The very same,” she muttered, her cheeks heating with a blush. And yet, just like in their every dealing, he didn’t pass judgment, instead urging her on with his silence. “And he has a fiancée. Or an almost-fiancée.”

  “And this bothers you?” he asked, his tones belonging to one who sought to sort it all out.

  “No. Yes.” She stopped abruptly and scraped a hand through the curls hanging about her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she confided.

  He pushed away from the table. “Do you know what I believe, Annalee?”

  She shook her head. “No.” It was part of the reason she’d come. In the hopes that he’d have the answers she most desperately needed sorted out, when she couldn’t speak to Valerie or the ladies of the Mismatch.

  He stopped before her and glided his knuckles down her cheek and along her chin, bringing her gaze up to his. “I believe he makes you remember a different time. And you see yourself as you once were . . . and the life you might have had.”

  I will love you until the day I die, Wayland Smith . . . We shall have the most glorious babies . . .

  Her throat muscles moved under the memory of that last day that life between her and Wayland had existed as a normal courting relationship, when the possibilities had been endless and the future bright with the dreams she’d carried for them.

  Willoughby continued. “But you aren’t that girl, and he isn’t that man,” he said with a bluntness that brought her crashing hard back to earth and reality. “He is a proper bore who, at best, if he’d entertain a future with you, would seek to change you.”

  She’d had the very same thoughts and opinions about this new version of Wayland. Why, then, did hearing Willoughby speak those words make her want to plant him a facer?

  “And Annalee,” he said, recalling her to the moment, “that is at best. As you’ve indicated yourself, he’s already set his sights upon the proper miss who will be his bride. And you?” He brought her hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss upon the tops of them, one at a time. “You will only find yourself hurt, and I’d not see you as you once were.”

  Her gaze caught on the soft fire blazing in the hearth, following those flames as they danced and bobbed.

  Lost.

  She’d been lost.

  Searching for herself.

  “Precisely,” he murmured, and she started, having failed to realize she’d spoken aloud. “And now, you are found.” Willoughby wrapped an arm about her waist and drew her into the vee between his legs in a way he’d held her so many times before this one. “Now, let me give you the release you desperately need,” he whispered against her neck. He pressed another kiss there, and she shivered. Her lashes fluttered.

  He’d always been able to bring her satisfaction, offer her, as he called it, a distraction, if even for just a brief moment in time.

  Just take it . . . Take what he is offering . . .

  For soon, her time with Wayland would be at an end; he’d go his way, marrying his perfect Lady Diana, and Annalee would be left . . .

  Her mind balked and shied away from imagining what her life would be when he was again gone. Everything would go back to what it had been since Peterloo. And she wanted that. She did . . . didn’t she?

  She dimly registered Willoughby trailing a path of kisses along the bodice of her dress, and as if she were watching another, she stared down at his bent head . . . wholly unmoved.

  Willoughby brought his mouth to hers, and just as their lips would have met, Annalee turned. His kiss fell upon her cheek. “Not this time, Wills.”

  He stilled, then dropped a kiss atop her forehead. “This is even worse than I feared, love.” He patted her on the hip and set her away. “Have a care, Annalee. You’re playing with fire where that one’s concerned. He’ll happily bed you, but he’s never going to wed you. And thinking that it might be more is only going to see you brought back to that point you were . . .” When he’d found her.

  Broken. And even worse off than she found herself now.

  “I know what I’m doing, Wills,” she insisted, though she wasn’t sure if she sought to convince him or herself.

  And for that matter, she wasn’t sure she entirely believed the flimsy lie she fed herself, either.

  Chapter 20

  The Times

  The Notorious Lady A’s reputation precedes her. So wicked she was turned out by her own mother and father, none were surprised to discover her entering, and then exiting, a certain Lord W’s household. What one is left to wonder is about a certain and seemingly forgotten Lord D . . .

  She’d gone to Lord Willoughby’s.

  The following morn, Wayland sat at the breakfast table . . . frozen inside. Numb.

  The man was a rake whom Wayland saw on occasion at White’s; they weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances. Hell, in the rare instances they were in attendance at the same events, neither of them so much as acknowledged the other with a bow or inclination of the head.

  And mayhap it was because Wayland had known, and read the sprinkle of sentences within newspapers, about Annalee and the marquess. Known that she had given herself to that man in a way that Wayland had once known her.

  Fire licked slowly at his insides, and like a spark, it sizzled through his veins, a furious heat born of the taste of his own jealousy. As potent as any poison, and powerful enough to devour.

  With a snarl, Wayland wadded the sheets of the damned gossip rag and hurled it across the breakfast table. The bottom of the page caught the flicker of the candle; the edges of The Times immediately curled and then went up in flames.

  Much like Wayland’s damned mood that morning.

  Bloody hell.

  He exploded to his feet.

  Alas, several of the more quick-footed footmen were already there, tamping out the fire eating up the silk tablecloth.

  That was the manner of damned day he was having, one where he’d set his own damned household ablaze.

  A certain Lord W who was certainly not Wayland.

  Not Wayland.

  A W belonging to a different name.

  All these years, he’d denied feelings of jealousy about whom Annalee took up with. He’d denied any and every feeling. All these years, he’d come across Annalee’s name just as he had now in some scandal sheet or another. But he’d forced himself to read on. He’d told himse
lf he didn’t care. They and what they’d shared were in the past.

  He’d done such an impressive job of lying to himself all these years that he’d actually come to believe it. Until now.

  Now, when presented with an image of Annalee . . . entering some bloody bastard’s apartments and—

  His mind recoiled, his entire body shuddering from the insidious thoughts that intruded.

  But it was too late. The vicious tentacles took root and wrapped and twisted their poison, imaginings of her in the throes of passion with another.

  A man who, thanks to the goddamned Times, wasn’t even a stranger, but a very real man with a name and an identity and a blasted face.

  And a good-looking one at that.

  Wayland slammed his fist down on the table, and his plate jumped.

  He did care.

  There came the frantic rush of footfalls outside the breakfast room.

  Splendid.

  This was exactly what else the day called for—a visit from his mother.

  She stopped quickly and sniffed the air. “Was there a fire?”

  Grabbing his coffee, he took a swallow of that bitter, black brew. “I knocked over a candle,” he said tersely. Which wasn’t untrue.

  Humming happily to herself, his mother set a new, unwrinkled copy of The Times beside his setting.

  He stared blankly, unblinkingly, at that page.

  “There,” she paused long enough in her song to say. She pointed to Annalee’s name tangled with Lord Willoughby’s.

  With a gleeful and gross smile, she plopped herself down on the seat a servant drew out for her. “I trust you’ve seen that already?” she remarked, buttering a piece of toast with a smug smile that, had she been a man, he would have happily wiped from her face. And it was too much to hope that his mother, abreast of all ton gossip and knowledge, should be speaking about some other on-dit, one that didn’t have to do with the one woman Wayland didn’t want to think of in this particular moment.

  “I’ve seen it. Though I hardly know—”

  “Oh, hush. Do not take me for a ninny. You know and I know that I am speaking about the reports of Annalee’s whereabouts last evening.”

  Her whereabouts.

  After she’d left her parents, she’d gone and . . . visited another gentleman.

  And just like that, his mother’s words, coupled with those he’d read inked upon The Times, painted a picture all over in his mind . . . of Annalee . . . and that bloody Lord Willoughby. Tall and wiry and born a proper gentleman, a man the papers had paired her name with through the years. The two of them twisted in one another’s arms as he moved between her legs. Coaxing those breathless little gasps from her—

  Nausea roiled.

  Wayland tossed back another swallow of coffee.

  It proved a mistake. The brew slid down his throat.

  I’m going to be sick.

  “I’ve told you to have a care around that lady. It doesn’t do for you to be seen with her as you were last night.”

  “I wasn’t with her,” he thundered, slamming a fist down upon that damning scandal sheet. “I was conversing with her because she is a damned friend, and because I’ll not treat her as a goddamned social pariah when the lady’s own parents would do so.”

  His mother stared wide-eyed at him.

  His chest heaving from the force of his fury, Wayland sat back in his chair. He never lost his temper. Good God, what was happening to him?

  Oh, you know, a voice taunted. You know. These past few days had stirred reminders of feelings he’d carried, and they were running amok, torturing him with what would never be.

  Fortunately, an interruption came, cutting into the tense debate with his mother.

  A servant came forward with a silver tray and held it out.

  Wayland stared at the familiar scrawl.

  Splendid. Absolutely splendid.

  He grabbed the sheet and broke the seal. Unfolding the note, he read the two concise sentences scrawled upon the page.

  Urgent. I require your presence.

  ~Jeremy

  Bloody hell.

  Wayland came to his feet.

  “Where are you going?” his mother called as he started for the doorway.

  “I have business to see to,” he said, not glancing back.

  “Surely, you see that it is as I said . . . She is not for you, Wayland. She is . . . damaged. She is not the girl you knew and played with. She is not the lady you loved.”

  Blocking out her grating voice, he quickened his strides, calling out for his mount.

  He was no more eager to speak with his mother about Annalee, or his relationship with her, than he was to sit there thinking about that.

  Jealousy and fury lent his strides an increased frenzy.

  He turned the corner and collided straight with his sister.

  Kitty cried out; the newspapers in her hands went flying, raining down around the corridor floor.

  Cursing, Wayland caught his sister to keep her from falling. “Forgive me,” he said on a rush, and waving off the waiting footman who ran over to help, Wayland fell to a knee and proceeded to stack his sister’s newspapers.

  He gritted his teeth. Though were they really newspapers? It was gossip. Bloody gossip was all it was.

  “I am quite fine, dearest brother,” Kitty assured, joining him on the floor. Collecting the newspapers from him, she proceeded to tidy her collection. “I trust you read about Annalee.”

  God help him. Not his sister, too.

  “I don’t care to talk about it, Kitty.” He stood. “If you’ll excuse me? I have a meeting.”

  “Yes, yes.” However, Kitty hopped into his path. “It is just I think you should . . . keep an open mind.”

  Oh, his mind had been opened that morning, all right. With all manner of dark, unwanted, unwelcome thoughts. He gave his head a hard shake.

  “So what?” Kitty shrugged. “The lady was spied visiting a gentleman. They are . . . friends. I’m sure. Women can be friends with men.”

  “They absolutely cannot be,” he replied in an instant.

  Invariably the friendship became confused; entangled within were romantic sentiments, and then more. He knew that better than anyone. Of course, he couldn’t as well say as much to his sister.

  Kitty threw up her hands. “Lady Sylvia was friends with the Viscount St. John.”

  “And they married.”

  And this wasn’t Lady Sylvia or any other damned lady they were speaking about.

  It was Annalee.

  Annalee, who, following their exchange last evening, had left her family’s household to visit another.

  Nay, not another. Stop letting your mind shy away from what it was: a man. A rake of the first order. A cad.

  His sister touched his sleeve, jerking him back from the silent, tortured hell of his own mind.

  “I’m simply saying that just because she visited him does not mean anything untoward happened. And that . . . you should trust her.”

  Trust her.

  He inclined his head. “I—”

  “I know. I know.” Kitty shoved him lightly. “You have a most important meeting. Off you go, then.”

  A short ride through Mayfair later, Wayland found himself climbing the Earl and Countess of Kempthorne’s steps. The doors were drawn open by a more-somber-than-usual Tanning with a rapidity that indicated this household had been awaiting Wayland’s visit. Nay, not visit. A visit suggested an amicable meeting between friends.

  That was not what this was about. Not this time.

  The moment he entered, a servant came to relieve him of his cloak.

  “This way, my lord,” Tanning murmured after Wayland had handed over the article. When they reached the billiards room, Tanning announced him.

  The moment Wayland entered, the servant immediately rushed off, closing the door quickly, leaving Wayland alone . . . with Annalee’s brother.

  Oh, God. He knows. The other man had finally deduced all these y
ears later that Wayland had been the one to take Annalee’s innocence. That he’d cared about her. That it was why he’d involved himself with Welles.

  And yet, even with Tanning having called out Wayland’s presence, the other man remained unmoving.

  A hip rested on the side of the table, but that was where any hint of casualness ended. His shoulders stooped and his head lowered into the palm of his right hand, Jeremy had the look of a man with demons.

  But then, didn’t they all?

  Wayland cleared his throat. And when there was still no movement from the other man, he made another clearing sound.

  Jeremy jerked his head up, blinking slowly.

  He looked haggard, his cheeks rough with a day’s worth of growth; his bloodshot eyes locked on Wayland, but his stare was sightless, going through his friend.

  Wayland had been wrong. He didn’t want this meeting. He wasn’t ready for it.

  His hands forming reflexive fists at his sides, he made a slow walk over to his oldest, longest friend. And aside from Annalee . . . Wayland’s only friend. Were he and Annalee friends anymore? They had been. But it was all confused now. She’d been clear in her disdain of him. For him.

  Wayland reached his side. “Jeremy,” he said quietly.

  The other man instantly straightened. “You came.”

  “Of course I did,” he murmured.

  This was what the meeting had been called for—Annalee.

  “I’ll not waste time with it,” Jeremy said tiredly, dragging a hand down his stubbled cheek. He let his arm drop. “I’ve called you here to speak about what transpired at Fitzhugh’s.”

  And there it was. Having known it was coming, and having mentally braced for it, his mind still ceased to function.

  “Yet another scandal.” Jeremy’s face spasmed. “I asked you to help, and because of it, this time she’s involved you. I am so sorry that you found yourself dragged into”—he slashed a hand about—“this.”

  She’d involved him?

  “I thought you might reach her”—a pained laugh burst from Jeremy’s lips—“never thinking in asking you to help that she would ruin you. I should have expected there was only one outcome where Annalee was concerned.”

  Ruin him?