A Wanton for All Seasons
Page 28
“And that is something you are familiar with?” he asked quietly.
“Lila is married to the Duke of Wingate,” she said. “As you’re no doubt aware, the duke was a former prizefighter. Lila had the idea after . . . after . . .” She bit the inside of her cheek, hating that she’d let that dark day into this moment.
But then, everything ultimately circled back to Peterloo. Everything she’d become, and every action she’d committed prior to that August day, converged.
“Peterloo.”
“I kept mentioning the excitement coming to Manchester. I convinced her it would be exciting,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the smooth waters contained within the porcelain bowl. “And afterward, she became a recluse. She found her way out by . . . seeking to learn the skills necessary to disarm someone, should she find herself as she did that day.” Taking in a silent breath through her teeth, Annalee forced a casual shrug she did not feel. “And given the precarious way women find themselves so often, it only seemed wise that we provide our membership with the skills necessary to see themselves safe.”
She braced for his judgment.
She didn’t anticipate the quiet understanding which came next from him. “I think there couldn’t be a more valuable lesson to school your members on.”
Annalee’s head came flying up. “You . . . don’t?”
“I’m attempting to live a life free of scandal,” he said with a small and pointed smile. “I’m not attempting to see my sister or other women oppressed.” Which was what most every other man wished for.
Annalee hurriedly diverted her attention back to the task of caring for his hand. His response showed traces and shades of Wayland of old, who’d climbed parapets and given speeches advocating for a place at the proverbial table. And indicated that mayhap he wasn’t altogether different, and she didn’t know what to do with that discovery. It was easier to bear the separation that had come when thinking of him as a pompous, priggish lord who cared only about his title, and naught for others.
Annalee dropped the rag, now lukewarm in temperature, back into the bowl. It hit the water with a splash, sending little drops flying over the edge. “Yes, Lila saw the need that I and every other woman should have identified,” she said, reaching for the needle. “What she and I . . . and those other women experienced at Peterloo isn’t amongst the threats most ladies face, and yet there is danger all around us, still.”
“And . . . have you found yourself . . . in a position of . . . danger before?” There was something ominous and dark. Undercurrents of the same violence that had crackled in the duke’s ballroom two evenings earlier, when he’d taken down Lord Welles.
“Most women do,” she said, shrugging again. “I didn’t have the foresight Lila had after Peterloo . . . to see myself skilled in fighting. I’d been attending—” She grimaced. He’d no doubt see it as her fault. Blame her for the company she’d kept and the attendance that had brought about what had befallen her that night.
Wayland brushed his knuckles in a light caress along her jaw, tipping up her chin and holding her eyes; she made herself say it, his judgment be damned.
Annalee set her jaw. “I was attending an orgy, and a gentleman took my attendance there as consent on my part for anything that would happen.”
Wayland’s eyes formed thin slits, with rage running from irises nearly perfectly concealed by those long, black lashes. But she saw it. His anger. For her . . . just as it had been directed two evenings earlier. “Did he . . . ?” His words trailed off, strained with fear and pain, and the merging of those sentiments . . . sent a warmth unfurling within her breast.
“He didn’t,” she said softly. “Lord Willoughby came upon us. He . . . disentangled me, beat the fellow quite handily, and that began our . . . friendship.” And a friendship was what it was, and had been . . . with sexual benefits extended to one another.
Annalee felt Wayland’s eyes move over her face, and this time, there were no other words or questions forthcoming, and his harshly beautiful, angular features formed a perfect mask she couldn’t decipher. Nor did she wish to. Because she didn’t want to know in this particular instance what he thought of her and the lovers she’d taken. Or her friendship that was oftentimes more with Willoughby.
“I trust you are wondering why I didn’t use those skills to disarm Lord Welles?” she asked guardedly as she resumed plucking the stinger from his hand, and no further words were spoken until she finished. “There,” she murmured.
“I didn’t,” he answered without hesitation. “In those moments . . . there isn’t to say when one is under attack what shock . . . or fear does to a person.”
No. That was something they’d both learned all too long ago, when they’d put themselves directly in the heart of an impending class-structured explosion.
“Which brings me to why I’ve come today, Annalee,” Wayland murmured.
Annalee’s heart fluttered. The courtship he’d mentioned publicly to her friends and society members. “Yes, you . . . mentioned something of it in the gardens.”
She was supposed to talk, and she’d always been bright and breezy in dialogue with men. But this time, God help her, it all eluded her.
“Given the nature of the scandal, given what people are saying about you and me . . . it makes sense that we move forward with the courtship you had suggested . . .” His cheeks flushed. “Only until the gossip dies down, and then we can part ways amicably. I will . . . recall other responsibilities that I have, and your name will be spared.”
“But . . . the match with Lady Diana. Your reputation.”
He grimaced. “We . . . were not a match. Lady Diana is the beautiful, wealthy daughter of a duke who could have anyone. Her interest in me is based on a young girl’s fantasy that my rescue makes me her destiny. But I don’t love her, Annalee, and she deserves someone who can offer her that.”
Yes, he’d said it all so very perfectly: the lady was a duke’s daughter, and flawless in every way, and even with her perfection and social connections, Wayland would throw away the possibility of a match with Lady Diana? He’d sacrifice his own reputation and join Annalee in this masquerade. It was the grandest of gestures, one only this man was capable of. And there was no greater gift he might offer, and she should only be grateful and focused on the lifeline he’d extended her, but she’d always been contrary in every way. This moment proved no different.
For what he suggested wasn’t real. It was a . . . ruse.
You fool. You thought it was real. You thought he was here for something more. Something that would save his reputation and yours.
Yes, she should be grateful.
So what accounted for that momentary madness where she’d believed his visit was real and his request to court her sincere?
Only, after her latest scandal—brought about by his undeserved public defense of her—she could not take what he held forth. Not when, in so doing, he’d also sacrifice the security and stability he sought for his sister. She could not accept this. She knew that now.
“I . . . thank you very much for such a generous offer, Wayland,” she said, resting her palms upon her lap. “What the papers are saying today . . . That had nothing to do with you, Wayland.”
He tensed, an angry color flooding his cheeks. “Willoughby.”
“Nothing happened between us.” She grimaced. “Last evening, that is.” She didn’t know why she told him. It just seemed . . . important that he know that. “Either way, there isn’t a need for you to . . . court me. Not any longer. I have decided it is in everybody’s best interest that I retire to the countryside until Sylvia has her babe. When she returns, I will have the freedom to return.” She made to rise.
“You are rejecting me?” That realization left him with a sharpness that she didn’t expect. One that suggested not relief at being freed of a chore he didn’t want, but rather frustration at being so denied the role.
Annalee paused. “Wayland, we weren’t discovered in a compromisin
g position at the duke’s. If anyone, Welles—”
“Welles can go straight to hell,” he snapped. “Is that what you think I’m here for?” he demanded. “Because I’m worried about my reputation?”
“Yes.” His eyes darkened. “In some part?” A vein pulsed at the corner of his temple. She was offending him. And upsetting him, and that wasn’t her intention. Particularly after his defense of her honor and his generous overture. “Wayland,” she tried again. “I know how dearly you value the life you’ve built for yourself.”
“I didn’t build it.” He clipped out each syllable between his clenched teeth. “It was given to me.”
Leave it to an honorable man such as Wayland to claim as much. Annalee collected his hands. “Either way,” she said gently, “it is a life that matters very much to you, and being connected with me?” She shook her head. “That will bring you nothing good.” Again, she attempted to stand, but he caught her hand, holding it in a grip that somehow managed to merge strength and tenderness.
“What has changed?” he demanded, his eyes moving quickly over her face. “I’m offering you what you wished for.”
She’d offended him. That had never been her intention. Particularly given the sacrifice she knew this proposal to be.
“Between that moment and now, it occurred to me that I’ll always be a scandal, Wayland,” she said flatly. “I thought I could enlist your help, and that by behaving a certain way and presenting a united showing with you, I would be viewed a certain way.” What she’d failed to consider was how his association with her would so adversely impact him. Or Kitty. Or his mother. “But that isn’t the case,” she said, unable to account for the sadness that realization brought. “It doesn’t matter how many proper balls I attend or how modest the gowns I don are or the language I use, society has seen me in one light, and yet, just like the sun, its movement does not change.”
“Actually, the sun does move. Verrrry slowly, Annalee. Just like the Earth, it rotates on its axis.”
Annalee laughed softly, briefly closing her eyes. When she opened them, she found his intent gaze locked on her face. “I’m not going to change,” she said with a gentle firmness. “Which is why what I’d proposed and what you’re now suggesting? It will not work.” Firming her words with a finality meant to end this discussion, she sailed to her feet. “Now, I thank you. I do. But I must decline that offer.”
“Do you truly wish to leave the ladies there?” he called out, freezing her as she walked. “I saw you with them, Annalee.” His voice drifted closer, indicating he’d moved. “I saw how they admire you, and how you love them, and you don’t want to leave them for however long it will be before Lady Sylvia returns.”
She felt him the moment he stepped close.
Annalee bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted the metallic tinge of blood.
He knew that. How could he know that after a quick encounter between her and the other members?
Because he always knew you.
Because he could always read you.
Even all these years later.
And that scared the hell out of her.
And it also tempted her in ways that were only dangerous. Because like a veritable Eve, she’d always freely surrendered herself to temptation.
It was why, the moment Wayland laid his hands upon her shoulders and guided her back around, she knew what she should do, but also what she would do.
“If there is anything I can do, Wayland”—she spoke fast—“or if you change your mind at any time or—”
He touched a fingertip to her lips, silencing her words, and she wished it was his mouth, ached for his harsh, firm lips on hers.
“I’ll not change my mind, Annalee,” he said quietly. “I’m not a man who is swayed in his feelings or thoughts . . . A ride in Hyde Park, tomorrow at noon.”
“Thank—” And this time, he covered her mouth with his, giving her what she’d craved. All too briefly. Her lashes fluttered, heavy from just a hint of what she desperately ached for more of.
“Until tomorrow, love.”
Love.
It had slipped past his lips so very easily and effortlessly, as it once had, doing wild things to her heart’s cadence.
She followed his retreat until he’d gone and the door closed behind him.
The moment he was gone, Annalee sagged, wrapping her arms about herself, his deep baritone, alluringly rough and so utterly masculine, echoing in his absence.
I’ll not change my mind, Annalee . . . I’m not a man who is swayed in his feelings or thoughts . . .
For with Wayland gone, she didn’t know if he’d been speaking in veiled terms about something more . . . or if she had simply heard what she wished.
Either way, she wanted him and this coming time with him, and that . . . could only be perilous.
Chapter 23
Through the years, every moment Wayland had with Annalee had been stolen. Clandestine. A secret they’d been forced to keep from her family. The world.
And Wayland had always despised it. He’d hated a world in which they had to hide their love and keep secret the feelings between them. He’d wanted their relationship to be real and recognized by all. Because he’d loved her. Because to hide it had been to make it tawdry. A sordid secret they could not share.
During those early years, he’d dreamed of the moment they would cease hiding what was between them, and had thought about what life would be like, living freely with the love they had for one another. Where social stations didn’t divide them. Where his relationship with her brother didn’t complicate what had been special between Wayland and Annalee.
They would have discovered London together, the same way they had explored every corner of Worsley. From the forests to the canals, they’d investigated it all.
Of course, they wouldn’t have discovered it together. Not really. For Annalee and Jeremy had been off during much of the social Season, and that fashionable world had been hers. But he would have been part of it with her, and for Wayland, that would have been enough.
So much of what he’d wanted for them had been laid to waste in the fields of Manchester.
But it didn’t have to mean that he couldn’t steal some of those moments he’d yearned for. That, in this arrangement he’d agreed to, he couldn’t help Annalee remember some of what she’d loved in life before his folly had seen it all ripped from her.
Adjusting her parasol, Annalee tipped back her head at the entrance of the grounds.
When she looked at Wayland, surprise lent her mouth a tempting moue.
He offered his elbow.
“I . . . confess to not understanding your selection, Lord Darlington,” she said, using his proper form of address for the benefit of the lady’s maid she’d brought with her. A servant whose presence made sense—yet at the same time, he’d not thought of having her there with him and Annalee, interrupting this time they had together. “I thought we were to visit Hyde Park, but you’ve brought us . . . here.”
He wavered.
It was a place different from where she was now rumored to frequent. He’d merely made the assumption that she might still like to visit, that it would do her good to see it.
And then she dismissed her maid, who curtsied and took herself off, allowing Wayland and Annalee the privacy he’d craved. When the girl had gone, Annalee placed her fingers upon his sleeve, as he’d long ago yearned for her to be able to do publicly, and followed him inside Vauxhall Gardens.
Walkway after walkway intersected in every direction, lined by piebald-color lamps that lent an added vibrance that was missing at night, when most of the ton visited. Her eyes took in the quiet grounds as though it were the first time she’d been here. In fairness, in the light of day, admission was low. It was at night, when the productions were biggest, with fireworks and lit paths and orchestras playing, that the ton flocked to Vauxhall.
“You disapprove of my choice,” he remarked when Annalee remained silent.
“Tell me, Annalee,” he called over as she slipped her arm from his and wandered off to the dais. “Where should I have taken you?”
She twirled her parasol as she went, its fabric and pearls and crystals dangling from the fringe, playing with the sun’s rays like a kaleidoscope, turning various shadows out upon the stone dance floor.
“Truthfully?”
He nodded, and drawn like the moth he’d always been where she was concerned, he drifted over.
Annalee immediately brought that frilly article to a stop. Snapping the parasol closed, she pressed the tip into the gravel and leaned over it. “I thought you would have taken me on a ride through Rotten Row, Wayland. Or a curricle ride through London. Or the theatre in the evening.”
“I intend for us to visit the theatre,” he felt compelled to add. Because she’d always loved it. He’d never been with her before, but had instead listened as she’d performed samples of the shows she’d seen, playing all the parts, until they’d both roared with laughter.
“That”—she pointed the end of her parasol at his chest—“that makes sense.”
“And what doesn’t make sense about this?” he asked, really trying to follow.
“We’re not”—Annalee glanced about and then, with her free hand, gestured to the paradise around them—“seen, Wayland.”
Of course. Because that was the whole purpose of their arrangement . . . or that was what she expected anyway.
“You like gardens,” he said quietly. Didn’t she? Or had that changed? She’d used to run barefoot through fields of wildflowers, twirling herself in circles, until she collapsed with dizzying laughter within those blooms.