A Wanton for All Seasons

by Caldwell, Christi

  “And the gardens at Hyde Park . . . where we would be seen?” she asked, drifting closer. Annalee of now was a driven woman who knew her mind and what she wanted in life . . . and what she wanted for this arrangement was the benefit it served in establishing respectability.

  “Visiting Hyde Park at this hour wouldn’t be a place where you could . . . simply enjoy . . . this, Annalee.” And twisting the stem of a peony in slow, rhythmic circles back and forth, he freed the bloom and held it out before her.

  Her eyes went as soft as they’d been when she was a young girl in the bloom of her innocence, and then she accepted the fragrant flower. Raising it to her nose, she inhaled deep. All the while, she watched him. “You’re still a romantic, Wayland Smith.”

  He wasn’t. Not really. Only where this woman was concerned had he been one. Was she?

  He knew there had been lovers. She’d all but freely admitted her association with Willoughby, a rake of the first order . . . but also a man who’d saved her, and . . . Wayland breathed deeply, containing the surge of jealousy that had rippled through his being when she shared about her past with the gentleman.

  They continued on, deeper into the gardens, which lacked the meticulous tending shown the hedges and blooms in Kew Gardens and Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. Annalee stopped and, resting a hand on his sleeve, tugged free first one slipper, then the other. She handed the laces over to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to carry her shoes. And there was an intimacy to Annalee’s surrendering them to his care.

  “Would you have preferred Rotten Row?” he asked, needing to know.

  “I prefer this,” she stated quietly. “I prefer this.” She paused beside a rosebush and, lowering her head, closed her eyes and inhaled.

  He watched her as she did, captivated by the sight of her.

  In this moment, the walls she’d built about herself since Peterloo, and the time that had separated them, had come down. She was not setting out to shock him. She was simply enjoying this . . . as he’d wanted for her.

  Suddenly, she opened her eyes.

  Over the top of that bush, their gazes locked, and it was as though the Earth ceased to spin and everything stood frozen in time. And he wanted that for this moment. So that they could block out the past and Peterloo and the present, where her family planned the vilest of futures for her. Where they could remain suspended in the empty gardens of Vauxhall.

  But, of course, invariably life continued on . . . and Annalee glanced away.

  “I’ve never been here at this hour,” she murmured, more to herself. Wandering off, she headed down a graveled path lined with unlit lights, and Wayland trailed at a slower pace behind her, allowing her that space she sought. “I confess to only coming in the evening.”

  When the grounds bustled.

  Suddenly, she glanced back. “Have you?”

  “Evening or day?”

  “Either?”

  “Never,” he confessed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This is my first time.”

  Surprise rounded her eyes. “Come, now.”

  “Not much one for fireworks,” he said gruffly, and then he wanted to call it back. That reminder about . . . that day which neither of them needed reminders of.

  Surprise gave way to a dawning understanding. “Ahh.”

  Except, speaking of it also felt . . . right. Important in ways that he’d not considered. He’d resolved to forget everything he could about that August day—an impossible feat. He’d thought to not let it intrude on these moments with Annalee. But . . . mayhap it needed to be spoken aloud. For the both of them. Those pieces they’d begun to explore in the duke’s gardens . . . when she’d revealed the small parts she had about her love and need of those fountains that grounded her.

  “I hate crowds,” he finally brought himself to say. “I hate ballrooms when they’re filled with people. I see Peterloo. If it weren’t for my mother and the need to ease her way in Polite Society, I’d likely avoid it all.”

  “Yes, I . . . feel that way, too.”

  “You?” he asked, sliding closer.

  “With the exception about aiming to please my mother, that is.” She fastened that teasing part on, adding a wink. However, Annalee toyed with the handle of her parasol, her grip a white-knuckled one, indicating her disquiet. “I’ve surprised you.”

  Every day. Then and now. He’d always been endlessly captivated by her for it. “Some,” he allowed.

  She abruptly stopped fiddling with that article in her hand, lowering it so the tip touched the ground once more, and she stared down upon the graveled stones. “It . . . Peterloo? It is always there for me.” For him, too. Likely for every man, woman, and child who’d been dragged into the hell of that day. “But I’ve found the quiet worse,” Annalee murmured. “It’s when it is quiet and I’m alone that everything is loudest in my mind.”

  And then it made sense. “It’s why you prefer the . . . the . . .” He stumbled, searching.

  A small smile formed on her lips. “The wicked events I do?”

  He gave a tight nod, even though she wasn’t looking at him. Even though she apparently didn’t require any clarification of what he’d really been intending to ask, but was too cowardly to put to words.

  “That is precisely why I prefer them. There’s shock and scandal and wickedness enough to distract one from . . . anything. At the events I attend, with the people I do, one thing a person might be absolutely assured of is that there will be no quiet, but plenty of diversions.”

  Wayland took in that important piece she’d revealed about herself and how she’d coped with the tragedy. Or rather, how she had failed to cope with what she’d lived through. She still hadn’t figured out that she couldn’t bury that day completely. She continued to run from it, never confronting what had happened to her. He moved closer, stopping at her shoulder. “But perhaps blocking it out . . . isn’t for the best. Not really.” A gentle wind rippled through the gardens, stirring the leaves to dancing, and a curl fluttered at her shoulder. Of their own volition, his fingers collected that golden strand, and he smoothed his thumb and forefinger over the silken tress before tucking it behind the delicate shell of her ear. “You can’t really confront what happened to you if you’re drowning it out with noise, Annalee.”

  She took a hasty step away from him, putting distance between them . . . and what he said? “Why would I want to relive it, Wayland?”

  “Because maybe you have to, Annalee. Perhaps we both have to.”

  Her mouth tightened, and she shook her head. “I gave enough that day,” she spat. “To hell with Peterloo and Manchester. And all of it.” She pointed her parasol his way, jabbing it with each word she spoke, as though placing exclamation marks upon them. “I’ll control what I think of and when I think of it.” With that, she whipped around and rushed deeper into the high-hedged gardens.

  He sprinted after her, churning stones under the heels of his boots as he went. “But . . . are you really controlling it, Annalee?” he implored, needing her to see that some of the decisions she’d made were ones that had been dangerous to her.

  She stopped suddenly. “You’re speaking about my drinking?” There was a challenge in her fiery gaze, a warning issued, one that said he’d wandered down a path that she’d no intention of walking with him. “Are you not?”

  And he was torn. He wanted to set aside the question which had roused this volatile emotion in her and stolen the soft-eyed joy that had been there the moment they entered the grotto. But he’d run for so very long where Annalee was concerned. And he was done with it. “I’m speaking about your drinking.”

  “I drink because it’s something that I can control.”

  “You don’t control it. It’s a vice. It controls you.”

  She recoiled, and then found her voice. “One who’s devoted his life to”—she elevated her nose, pointing it at the air—“propriety and properness would never dare indulge.”

  “I ind
ulge,” he said. “I don’t overindulge.”

  She stomped toward him. “And what of you, Wayland?”

  He straightened. “What of me?”

  “You speak to me about living a certain way. But are you really living? You’ve fashioned yourself into a person who cares more about opinions than your own happiness. You don’t live. Not like you used to.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I don’t. I chose a different course.”

  “A better course,” she jeered.

  “I didn’t say that, Annalee. I made decisions that day that were reckless. I asked you to meet me there because I wanted you to be there, and what did that get you?” He couldn’t stop the trace of bitterness from creeping in. Hatred of himself.

  Annalee moved swiftly. Letting her parasol fall, she grabbed Wayland’s hands, knocking her slippers free of his grip so that the silken articles tumbled beside her umbrella. “I was there because I wanted to be there.”

  All his muscles seized up, the pain of it welcome. “To see me,” he said, unable to meet her eyes.

  “Of course to see you, but also to witness that moment that mattered so much to you, and so much to so many.”

  God, how unerringly she’d always been able to follow his thoughts.

  She tightened her grip upon his fingers, forcing his eyes to hers. “It was my decision, Wayland. Not yours. And I’d hate you forever if you take responsibility for a choice that belonged solely to me.”

  Her pronouncement gave him pause. All these years, he’d lived with guilt, having owned her being there. Because it had been his fault. Now, seeing how Annalee had devoted her life to a society of women exacting change over their lives and the lives of other ladies, it made him realize how narrow-minded that view of her and her decision that day had been. She’d been committed to challenging the inequities that existed before, and in ways that he’d not proven steadfast, she had . . . continued those passions through the Mismatch Society. Her devotion to that group and change was so great that she’d even change herself or, as she’d stated yesterday, leave, to preserve it.

  Their chests brushed, their eyes locked on one another’s mouths.

  Then she caught him by the nape and dragged his mouth to hers.

  He was lost.

  Or found.

  Mayhap it was really both.

  Wayland surrendered himself to her kiss, a violent meeting that fit with the tension that had exploded in these empty grounds.

  He lowered them to the ground, lying down so her form was draped over him. So that her pale-yellow gown was spared stains from the grass.

  Her skirts rucked up about them, and he slid his hands up her thighs, gripping and massaging the muscles of her long limbs.

  She lowered the bodice of her gown and leaned forward just as he leaned up to worship that swollen pink tip. Wayland flicked his tongue over the crest, teasing her.

  Annalee panted, moving against him, rubbing her thatch over the bulge in his trousers. “Please,” she begged, gripping his head and anchoring him against her breasts, and he knew what she hungered for, knew she wanted him to suckle deep and long, but he drew out the moment.

  Swiping the tip of his tongue back and forth, lavishing attention on each mound, before ultimately giving her what she ached for.

  She panted, reaching between them and making quick work of his front falls.

  “This isn’t why I brought you here,” he said, his voice strained as she freed him from his trousers.

  She gripped him in her fist, squeezing his length and pulling a low groan from deep in his chest. “Shh,” she whispered, concealing his harsh panting with her mouth. “And I know,” she breathed between kisses.

  Then she sank onto him, sliding herself down in one glorious glide, her channel sodden with her desire, and he filled her.

  Sweat slipped down his brow, and Wayland lowered his head to the ground and clenched his eyes tight. This was the homecoming.

  And then she began to move, undulating slowly, riding him as she’d always loved.

  She moaned, a low, long, throaty rumbling, and a wave of heat and desire all melded into one potent blast that coursed through his veins.

  Wayland brought his hands up, gripping her at the waist and stroking over her buttocks, guiding her on to that goal she sought. “That’s it, love,” he praised, lifting his hips to meet each downward thrust.

  She bit her lower lip as she drove herself up and down upon him, and knowing it would drive her to the brink of a happy madness, Wayland stretched up to take the tip of her right breast, swollen from his mouth’s worshipping, again.

  “Wayland,” she rasped, clinging to his shoulders. He felt the bite of her nails through the fabric as she gripped him, leveraging herself forward.

  His chest tightened, his breath constricted. “God, you’ve always been so good at that.”

  “Have I?” she whispered, squeezing him with clever internal muscles that tightened around his shaft, pulling a gasp from him.

  “Annalee,” he begged, tightening his hold on her hips and urging her on.

  Then she set a frenzied pace, rising and falling over him. Again and again.

  Leaning forward, she laid her hands upon his chest, her face scrunched up as she concentrated on the pleasure she found in this moment, and Wayland lifted his head to meet her mouth.

  Annalee’s body tensed.

  She gasped, and he consumed that broken, breathy exhalation.

  He felt every tightening of her muscles, and she arched her back, tossing her neck, and climaxed. Her channel pulsed and squeezed as her body shuddered and rippled from the force of her pleasure.

  He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, straining and fighting for self-control, as her moment of surrender went on forever and then she collapsed atop his chest.

  Gasping, Wayland rolled her off him and then turned sideways, spilling himself into the grass in long arcs, his body jolting and spasming from a release so exquisite it bordered on pain.

  And then he sagged.

  Annalee came up on her knees and rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and then she placed a series of kisses there, moving that trail higher.

  His chest moved hard and quick, his heart pounding in his ears.

  “I . . .”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  He rolled onto his back and caught her by the waist, bringing her down atop his chest and pulling a breathless laugh from her. “Is it wrong that I wasn’t going to?”

  She lowered her mouth close to his. “It is right that you weren’t. I wanted this.” Her gaze, still glittering with passion, slipped over his face. “All of this, Wayland,” she said with a seriousness replacing her earlier mirth. “This whole day, exactly as it was. I forgot . . . what it is like to be in the gardens.” And then she lay down, draped over him, her ear pressed against the place where his heart continued to wildly pound.

  Wayland folded his arms around her and proceeded to rub small circles over her back. “How many of us spent so many days trying to forget and, along the way, forgot how to live?”

  She stilled. “You’re speaking about my drinking,” she said guardedly, reality inserting itself into this moment.

  “I’m speaking about how all of us coped in a bid to conquer our demons. You weren’t wrong earlier, Annalee.” Annalee lifted her head, propping her chin on his chest so she could meet his gaze. “I made myself who I am because it was something I could control. I had no control that day. I couldn’t stop the mayhem. I couldn’t . . .” His voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes shut, letting all the terror of that day wash over him, the panic of fighting his way through a sea of bodies, looking at the trampled and bloodied and battered around him, alternately fearing he’d see her amongst those masses and that he wouldn’t. That he’d never find her again.

  “Wayland,” she said soothingly, sitting up, and he joined her. Hunching his shoulders, he rocked himself back and forth slightly.

  “I couldn’t get to you,” he whispered. He couldn
’t save her. Ravaged by his failings, all of them in life revolving around this woman, he looked to her and through her. “The one thing I could control after Peterloo was becoming a proper gentleman. There were rules I could follow. There were places I could go and not go. It was a formula. It made sense. But it was also a movement toward one extreme.”

  “Just as mine,” she murmured.

  He nodded. “We both went . . . off in these extremes. But alcohol, Annalee? It is . . . will not erase those memories we carry. I want you to give it up. Not for me. But for you. I want you to realize you don’t need it. You can and do find fulfillment in other places. Your Mismatch Society. The women who rely upon you. Your sister.” Me. Why was he only just realizing that this offer he’d put forward hadn’t been about easing guilt . . . but that it was about . . . being with her?

  Drawing in her knees, Annalee wrapped her arms about her legs. “I don’t . . .” know if I can do it.

  “You just try, Annalee. You just do the best you can. You don’t let it control you.”

  Wayland folded an arm around her, drawing her against his side, and simply held her.

  The world existed on the fringe of those high garden hedges. Any passersby might wander in and find them. And yet, he could not care.

  He cared only about Annalee and this moment between them, in this walled-in Eden where only they two existed.

  Chapter 24

  Annalee and Wayland had agreed to a ruse, a pretend courtship. A pretend courtship served its purpose only if the world saw and the world came to believe in that game of make-believe both actors played at.

  And yet yesterday afternoon, at the hour when all of Polite Society was riding and strolling down Rotten Row to be seen, he’d met her in the almost intimately private grounds of Vauxhall. He’d recalled her love of nature and gardens. Why, he’d picked her . . . a peony.

  And now, today . . . the second part of their most recent act, he’d arranged a meeting at, of all places . . . a museum.

  Why would he do that? a voice needled at the back of her mind. Unless . . . what was pretend really . . . wasn’t . . . And mayhap, just mayhap, he wished to make that which was fake . . . real.