“Another one of those sorts,” someone muttered.
“At least he’s brought flowers?” a lady piped in.
“I . . . Are we sure they are flowers?” a third lady ventured.
“They are flowers,” that familiar voice hissed. Lady Diana.
Bloody splendid. Yes, well, there’d been no way around this.
The group immediately glanced at the offering, and Wayland followed their stares to the forlorn bouquet forgotten until now on the ground.
“They don’t look like much of a bouquet,” Miss Isla Gately muttered.
The dark-haired girl wasn’t wrong in this instant. At this point, one couldn’t be certain about the sad stems tied with a blue velvet ribbon.
“Who needs flowers when he is here to remove Kitty from the society?” That hissed query immediately brought a sea of angry stares back his way.
Oh, bloody hell. “I’m not—”
And then intervention came a second time. “What is going on here?”
Oh, thank God.
The line of ladies parted like that infamous sea, and the very clear leader of their ranks swept forward, the queen she was. And for a second time that day, it was like falling all over again and having the air knocked out of him.
Annalee stopped before him. Clad in tight-fitting breeches and a lawn shirt that had been drawn snugly behind her so that the fabric molded to her, she was a veritable Aphrodite.
He felt more than saw every set of eyes swiveling between him and Annalee. Wayland, however, was hopeless to remove his gaze from hers . . . She stopped three paces away, coming up short. “You,” she said softly, and with her ocean-blue eyes forming circles, she embodied every aspect of that goddess of legends.
Except he made the mistake of slipping his stare lower and over her. She was all lush curves, accentuated and on display, and they made it impossible for him to form anything beyond one single-syllable utterance. “Me.” His mouth went dry and hunger filled him.
God, she was magnificent. But then she could have donned an empty oak sack and been nothing less than the goddess she’d always been, captivating mere mortals.
“What’s the problem, Kitty’s brother?” another of the Kearsley girls snapped. “Never seen a woman in trousers?” she demanded, thankfully mistaking the reason all the words and thoughts had been knocked square outside his head.
Annalee had donned breeches many times through the years, more often than not pairs which he’d fetched for her. But never, never like this.
Kitty shot an elbow into his side, effectively jolting him back to the moment. “Do not ruin this for me, brother,” she whispered under her breath. “Any more than you already have, that is.”
He cleared his throat, and assessing the dynamics of this eclectic gathering of women, he opted to speak to the group at large. “Forgive my . . . er . . . entrance?”
He felt Lady Diana’s stare burning a hole in him. There was, however, no helping this. He’d speak to her . . . later.
Annalee . . . She came first.
Wayland slid his focus back to Annalee. “I was hoping to speak with Lady Annalee?” He murmured that last part in quiet tones meant for only her.
She frowned. “About what?”
Wayland sent a prayer upward in a bid for patience. She’d not make this easy. He took a step closer. “About . . . a matter of import.”
It proved the wrong thing to say. That army of girls moved as one, like a wave rolling forward as they converged around Annalee, forming a menacing line.
“You’re here to take Kitty,” one of the Kearsley sisters snapped, making devil’s horns with her fingers and waving them his way.
“I—” Could not get a word in edgewise.
“Just like all the others . . .”
“Except for the flowers . . .”
Bzzzzz . . .
Their fury and grievances hummed like so many bees.
Wayland blinked slowly.
No, wait a minute . . . that really was a bee . . . He glanced down at a pair of bumblebees circling the last handful of flowers in the bouquet he’d brought. A third bee circled around him, and he swatted it away. “You misunderstand,” he said to the group at large.
And Annalee, with the twinkling in her always animated eyes and the dimple made by her devilish smile, was enjoying this.
“They really are misunderstanding the reason for my being here,” he called loudly over the din for Annalee’s benefit.
She folded her arms. “Are they?”
She was right to her suspicions. He’d been nothing short of blunt to the point of rudeness in sharing his opinions about the Mismatch Society. And as a result, the lady was showing no mercy.
Wayland turned back to her devotees. “I’m not here for Kitty,” he shouted over the noise of their chattering, frustration bringing that admission from him. “I’m here to court Lady Annalee.” And to accentuate that point, he bent and swiped up the flowers. Too quickly.
A bee stung him for his efforts, pulling a sharp curse from him.
That was how this day was shaping up to be.
Silence fell hard and fast, and he’d wager every last pence and property he’d received from the king, and his reputation itself, that this was the first this particular gaggle of ladies had been so effectively quieted.
When still no one spoke and he was left with the awkwardness of more than a dozen eyes all locked on him, he repeated for a second time, “I’m here to court Annalee.” He displayed the peonies. What remained of them.
A petal rained sadly down from the bunch, landing atop the tip of his black boot.
These were, however, women, he thought, and all women were at least a little bit romantic and were certainly hard-pressed not to sigh somewhat over a suitor who’d scaled a wall, bearing flowers.
Alas, he was reminded all over again that he knew less than nothing where the fairer sex was concerned.
“What kind of suitor arrives with beheaded flowers?” someone whispered from the crowd. “I think it’s a threat.”
Oh, for the love of God. “It is not a threat,” he said, running his free hand down over his face, and through his fingers, he caught Annalee’s widening smile. “You’re enjoying this,” he muttered.
Annalee leaned in, wafting that fragrant rose scent, filling his nostrils and flooding his senses. “Oh, immensely.” She winked.
“And furthermore, he cursed at her. Cursed. That is hardly the intentions of a suitor.”
Finding no safe harbor in Annalee, he glanced to his sister, Kitty, who at some point had edged away from him and started her return to the bloodthirsty lot. She immediately stopped her retreat. “Will you tell them?”
“They’re not wrong, Wayland. If you’re here courting, cursing hardly seems the stuff of romance.”
Murmurs of assent rolled around the gardens, and he, who’d been praised by society for his respect of propriety and decorum, reached the outer limits and breaking point of his patience. “Because I’m here with honorable intentions.”
“Heard that before,” a lady in the masses mumbled.
“Do you know what happened to the peonies?” he called, with not a single person present giving an indication that they cared. He gritted his teeth and told them anyway. “The butler beheaded them. Because I tried to make my way through the front door. But alas, I’m a menace. Me, a gentleman with flowers and”—Wayland shot the hand holding the bouquet out toward them—“I got stung by a damned bee and—”
“And he’s yelling.” A stranger-to-him lady clucked her tongue like a chicken.
“And cursing again,” his sister added.
It was official. He was going to lose his damned mind if he stayed here one moment longer.
At last, Annalee took mercy on him and his soul.
She clapped once. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me. There’s nothing ornerier than a wounded man.”
The group sniggered. His sister included.
The traitor.
&
nbsp; “I’m not—” His finger was beginning to swell. Except . . . His mind raced. “Er . . . yes, that is . . . that is it, exactly. I am not my usual self because of my grave injury.”
Annalee inclined her head. “Ladies, please resume our lessons without me while I save Lord Darlington’s life.”
With that, she crooked two fingers, indicating he was to follow.
And at last, he was in.
Chapter 22
Annalee and Wayland didn’t talk the length of the walk from the gardens to her offices.
In all the years that she’d known Wayland Smith, it was the first silence that had ever existed between them.
And yet, also for the first time, Annalee, who was always ready with a quip and a witty word, found herself . . . speechless.
He’d . . . come here . . . ? For her?
Nay, more specifically . . . to court her?
That didn’t make sense. But then, nothing about coming into her gardens and finding the always proper Wayland sprawled on his arse from a fall he’d suffered scaling her wall did.
Had he been Wayland of old, then, yes, nothing about this day would have been unexpected . . . But Wayland, who valued his reputation and his place in Polite Society above all else, was the last man she’d have thought to sneak onto her property.
Except, this new Wayland had also bloodied to a pulp Lord Welles, making himself a scandal . . . for Annalee. Because of Annalee.
The same guilt that had dogged her since the Fitzhugh ball reared its head. Mayhap his appearance, and the intentions he had stated, did make sense, after all. Wayland would worry about his reputation and hers—not that there was much left to worry after where hers was concerned—and he’d come to do the right thing.
At last, they arrived at the rooms she’d chosen for her offices, a brightly lit floral chamber that embodied gardens even more than the grounds she and Wayland had just vacated.
The butler, Terrence, stood as a sentry, cracking his knuckles and glaring at Wayland. “Snuck in, did he?”
“Worry not,” Annalee said, patting the devoted former fighter’s arm. “He was punished, and mightily, by the affront, suffering quite the injury. A fall and a beesting.”
Terrence chuckled.
“If you would have a servant bring cold water, some of my tobacco, and a needle?”
The servant nodded, and with a swift bow, he ambled off . . . leaving Annalee and Wayland alone.
Alone.
After . . . everything that had transpired last evening.
Funny that, since Peterloo, she’d lived for sin and scandal and made few apologies for any of it. But being here, with this man who valued his reputation and had worked so hard to rise above the low opinions the world carried about him because of his birthright, she found herself . . . lost . . . to the regret that had riddled her since his rescue. She felt as nervous as she had the moment of her sixteenth birthday when they’d both acknowledged their friendship had been altered by feelings they had, and known from that instant on that everything would be irrevocably changed.
Wayland rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet before coming to a stop. “It was not my intention to force my way inside.”
“No, that does not seem to be your preferred mode of arriving at a person’s residence.” She infused a mock solemnity into her response, grateful to him for speaking first.
An adorable blush climbed his cheeks.
“I see your skill set with scaling walls has not been lost with time,” she said softly.
“Alas, my final descent was far below my usual prowess.”
They shared a smile, and it felt so very good. After the horror of her latest scandal, and the gossip following it, to find this plane of . . . comfortable ease.
It lasted no more than a moment.
He passed the flowers back and forth between his hands in a distracted and agitated way before stopping himself and extending them for Annalee.
She hesitated, then took them; their fingers brushed, both naked, and the heat sparked electric, tingling at the touch of his skin upon hers. Trembling, Annalee reflexively drew the flowers close and inhaled a scent from . . . what remained of the flowers.
Not just any flowers, either, but the peonies which she’d told him long ago were her favorite. Nay, there was no mere coincidence in that flower selection.
Her heart knocked against her rib cage. He’d been the first man to give her blooms, those he’d picked himself in the fields of Manchester. And he’d also been the last. There’d never been a respectable gentleman to visit. There’d never been a serious suitor.
“They were in far better shape when I set out this morning,” he explained. “I purchased them all with heads.”
She was certain there were any number of teasing rejoinders she could make. And yet . . . in this moment, every single witty response eluded her.
Annalee was saved when the door opened and a young maid appeared, bearing a tray filled with the items she had requested.
Crossing to the table that held them, Annalee called Wayland over. “Please sit, Lord Darlington.”
Wayland joined her, but then paused, eyeing the eclectic mix dubiously. “Should I be nervous?”
“With me, Wayland?” She leaned in, bringing her lips up close to his, so close she heard his slight intake of air, and the sough of his mint-and-chocolate-tinged breath upon her flesh, tempting her with a taste of sweets, and she wanted to taste him more than any of the most delectable confectionaries. “Always,” she whispered.
He gulped, and with a little laugh, breathless from the desire she’d inadvertently roused with their nearness, Annalee fell back on her heels. She motioned to the Chippendale camelback sofa. “Now, sit,” she ordered, and he promptly fell into the seat.
Joining him, she perched herself on the edge, and setting down her flowers, she reached for a fingerful of tobacco.
He leaned in, examined the items she’d called for . . . and then turned a confused stare back to Annalee. “Are you . . . smoking?”
“I wouldn’t dream of so scandalizing you. Furthermore”—with her spare fingers, Annalee plucked a rolled cheroot from within the deep vee of her shirt and held it up—“I come with my tobacco ready for smoking.” She tossed down the scrap. “Now, take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves, Wayland.”
“What?” he whispered furiously, so endearing in his shock that a smile pulled at her lips.
“You needn’t worry too much . . . I didn’t tell you to take off all your garments.” She pinched the fabric of his sleeve. “Just remove your jacket. I’ll also need you to roll up the sleeves of your shirt.”
Wayland stole a frantic glance at the closed door.
“Oh, come, Wayland. I am merely tending your beesting, Lord Darlington.”
He hesitated.
He really had become . . . laced-up. Odd how shows of such propriety in other gentlemen would have set her eyes to rolling and her annoyance up. Everything with this man, all her feelings for him, had forever been different. Even in these ways in which he’d changed, she found him . . . endearing.
“Wayland, your hand is swollen,” she said gently. “And by the redness, it’s deuced uncomfortable and painful, and it will remain so until I remove the stinger and release the venom.”
With that, he freed the buttons of his jacket, and despite herself, she followed Wayland’s every movement. Then he shrugged out of the article, tossing it down over the back of the sofa. He proceeded to shove up his lawn sleeves, revealing arms corded with muscles and sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair.
Oh, God.
When she’d stated her intentions to care for him, she’d been serious.
She’d not set out to seduce him. Not this time.
She really had intended only to worry after his wound . . . but that had been . . . before. When he’d been fully buttoned up.
Now, with his broad shoulders on display and his biceps rippling, she found herself lost in the sight of
him and the memories of how very good it always was between them.
She really was the wanton the world accused her of being. And God forgive her, she had no regrets in that instant. Aside from one . . . that she couldn’t climb atop his lap as she used to and ride him until—
“Have you done it before?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered huskily. So many times. But it had always been best with him. She’d lost track of how many times she’d straddled Wayland and freed him from his breeches and pressed herself down until he’d filled her deep. So very deep.
She moaned softly, desire instantly flooding her center.
At his confused look, she fought through the fog of desire. “Yes,” she exclaimed quickly. “When I first moved in, Harlow snuck here to visit and suffered such a sting.”
When she’d escorted her younger sibling home to their parents, Annalee had fielded just more upset from her mother, about being wholly unable to properly love their family, or look after her sister.
And she hated that sobering reminder of the failure her family—and the world—saw her as. Was there a swifter executioner of desire than thoughts of one’s hate-filled mother?
“Now let me see it, Wayland,” she said impatiently.
He hesitated another moment, then proffered his hand.
Annalee immediately set to work, dunking a rag in the freezing-cold water; she wrung it out, and then pressed it to the top of his hand. As she tended him, she felt his eyes on her bent head. His gaze had always been compelling, his stare one that moved through her like a physical touch. Trembling slightly, she pressed down too hard on the place he’d been stung.
Wayland flinched. “Are you enjoying this?”
“I’ve been accused of much, but never bloodthirsty.”
“Given the showing from that crowd of ladies, that is doubtful,” he said dryly. “Ouch.”
Annalee batted her lashes. “Did I prick you too hard, my lord?”
“Minx.”
Annalee winked, then resumed drawing back the skin to remove the stinger still stuck there.
“What were you and your membership doing out there?”
She searched for a trace of judgment in his tone but found only curiosity, and for that reason alone, she was compelled to explain what her society had been engaged in, when as a rule, she and the members didn’t speak to any man about what they did and why they did it. “Today, we were focusing on self-defense.”
A Wanton for All Seasons Page 27