As she climbed the steps, butterflies danced in her breast.
Those little thrilling flutters she’d come to believe herself too jaded to again feel or know had been resurrected by the same man who’d first given them life within her, all those years ago.
“Suspicious is what it is,” Valerie muttered as she stomped beside Annalee up the almost two dozen steps of the Royal Museum. Huffing from the climb and the pace Annalee had set, she shot her friend a sideways glance.
“There’s nothing suspicious about the choice,” Annalee lied, and tiring of those censorious looks directed her way, she adjusted her bonnet. “Many, many couples choose to be seen at museums.” Obscure ones. On the farthest recesses of the neighborhoods resided in by lords and ladies.
“Do you really know that to be fact?”
“Absolutely.” She felt more than a little guilt for how easily that second fib fell from her lips. The undisputable truth was, Annalee knew no such thing of the sort. Wayland had been the only respectable suitor she’d ever had. And back then, he’d been a blacksmith’s son, apprenticing and working, and not afforded the opportunity to court her as couples of the ton did. They’d entered into a pretend courtship, and yet thus far, the places Wayland had arranged for them to meet . . . were not the ones that would put the most eyes upon them. Rather . . . it felt very much . . . like a real courtship.
“Yes, well, I rather think dashing off where no one is seeing the two of you together defeats the whole purpose of your association with the gentleman. It seems underhanded, as though there is a reason he’s keeping you and he a secret,” Valerie muttered, effectively popping the bubble on Annalee’s foolish dreaming.
They reached the main landing of the Royal Museum.
Collecting the other woman by her shoulders, Annalee drew her in for a hug. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough.”
“Yes, well, nothing good comes from worrying.”
“That’s a ridiculous saying.”
Annalee fixed a pout on her lips. “La, I’m offended, given it was a saying I crafted myself.”
“I feel his intentions are nefarious, Annalee.”
“You feel the intentions of all men are,” she reminded her friend. “And that is why we are perfect friends. We balance one another out.”
An all-too-familiar worry seeped from Valerie’s eyes as she passed her gaze over Annalee, her mouth moving as though she wished to say more, and then she released a sigh.
Annalee patted her arm. “There, that is better.”
“Because I’m letting the matter rest,” she groused.
“Precisely.” And yet . . . Annalee let her smile fade, bringing her features into a mask of solemnity. Her friend had every reason to be cynical and wary of intentions where men were concerned. Given the lies fed her by the man who’d sworn to protect and love her, when all the while he’d been married to Sylvia. “There isn’t a better friend than you,” Annalee said quietly.
“Because I’ve let the matter rest about all the reasons I don’t trust Lord Darlington and his sudden change of heart in helping you?”
Yes, well, Valerie was nothing if not tenacious. “Because your first worry is always protecting those you love from being hurt.” She pressed a kiss to Valerie’s cheek. “I know you are worried about me. You needn’t.”
Valerie winged a brow. “Are you so very sure about that . . . ?”
Was she so very certain? Was she sure Wayland wouldn’t hurt her? That his intentions were honorable? A little sliver of unease twisted around her belly.
Valerie moved closer. “You’re thinking about what I’ve said. Why has he suddenly, after all these years, appeared and started whisking you about London to places where no one—”
“Enough,” Annalee said curtly, her patience at an end with Valerie’s endless warnings that morn. She recalled the hoarse whisperings he’d shared about the changes he’d adopted after Peterloo. “Wayland conducts himself first and foremost with honor.”
“No such thing, with men,” her friend said in a singsong voice.
There would be no swaying her. Valerie would have to learn and see for herself that Wayland was . . . unlike the men Valerie had dealings with at the fight club she’d been forced into. And he was different from the lovers whom Annalee had taken. “Now, go enjoy yourself. You are at the Royal Museum.” And with that dismissal, she collected her hems and rushed on ahead.
“His intentions are probably nefarious, you know.”
“Hush, there’s my reputation to worry about.”
Valerie snorted. “I think that is my point.” Annalee increased her stride. “All manner of wicked things happen in museums, you know,” her friend called more loudly after her. “Hidden spots for trysting. It’s how all rakes and rogues are. Nay, all men! They—”
Not looking back, Annalee lifted a hand, waving off that unending litany of worries about Wayland and his intentions, and let herself inside the museum.
And yet . . . what if it wasn’t just a coincidence that, with both outings, he’d chosen the out-of-the-way, private locations he had?
What if—
She stopped abruptly, as she discovered in that very moment there had been something very specific about Wayland’s decision for them to meet at the Royal Museum, after all. Annalee shook, the force of emotion rolling through her as she caught sight of the pair twenty paces away.
Wayland . . . and her sister. He and Harlow conversed so effortlessly, Wayland attending whatever it was Annalee’s sister spoke about so animatedly. Periodically, he nodded, and said something in return.
Tears clogged her throat and filled her eyes, and through that blurry sheen, she caught the moment Harlow spied her standing there.
“Annalee!”
Sinking to a knee, Annalee threw her arms wide.
Grinning from ear to ear, Harlow came hurtling forward.
Annalee staggered back under the force of her sister’s embrace.
“Darlington had the idea that we could go to the museum, Annalee! The museum. Utterly brilliant,” she prattled as Annalee kissed her cheeks. “Because he knows I love you and Captain Cook and piracy, but there is no museum of pirates, you know, and there really should be.”
Laughing through her tears, Annalee brushed the curls that had fallen loose in her young sister’s flight back behind her ears. “There should be. Someday you shall be the one to create such a venture.”
Harlow’s eyes lit. “Do you know, that is a splendid idea. You do have them often, though. I am ever so excited to see Cook’s. I’ve been asking my governess.” She stuck out her tongue. “But you know that woman. She’s useless. And Jeremy is always occupied with his betrothed, and then . . . well, Wayland.” She lifted her right shoulder in an uneven shrug, so casual, when there was nothing minor or trivial about this moment and what Wayland had done.
Annalee looked over the top of her sister’s head to Wayland, elegantly clad in his cutaway morning coat and tan trousers. At some point he’d joined them, standing with his fingers clasped behind him, keeping a handful of paces apart from her and her sister, allowing Annalee and Harlow their privacy.
Stroking little circles over Harlow’s back, Annalee held his eyes. “Thank you,” she mouthed, her lips trembling.
He lifted his head in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t just me,” he demurred, and she followed his gaze over to Jeremy, hovering off to the side, unseen until now, toying with the brim of his hat.
Annalee stilled, and then hugging her sister once more, she came to her feet. “Jeremy,” she greeted cautiously.
It had been the first she’d spoken to her brother since the debacle she’d inadvertently caused at his betrothal ball.
“Annalee.” He ceased toying with his hat, returning it to his head. “You look . . . well.”
And she’d . . . felt well. She’d not given a thought to spirits or sinning or wagering. How could she ever amend for what she’d done? “I’m so—�
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“No. No. That’s not why we’re here,” he said gruffly. “That is done. Darlington thought to unite you and Harlow here and required my assistance to do so. I’d have the day be about that.”
“Come on! Come on!” Harlow cried, gesticulating wildly.
When it became apparent Jeremy didn’t intend to join them, Annalee frowned. “You’ll not stay?”
“I . . . have private matters to attend this morn.”
Hearing the heavy thread in his pronouncement, she stepped closer. “What is it?”
“Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. I was summoned by Sophrona’s father to discuss the terms of our betrothal. Some . . . final revisions. I knew, however, Harlow would be in good hands with you and Darlington. I’ll return when I’ve concluded my affairs and escort her home.”
So that she could have this day that their parents would have never approved of. Another cloud of tears blurred her vision. “I love you.”
Jeremy sucked a breath in through his teeth. “And I you, little sister.”
“Come on!” Harlow shouted, her child’s voice echoing around the empty museum.
Doffing his hat, he nudged Annalee gently in the arm. “Run along before she brings down the ceiling with her shouts.”
Annalee laughed, and kissing him on his cheek, she hurried off to join Wayland and her sister. She slid her fingers onto his sleeve. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing.”
“No, you’re right,” she said as they walked with their steps in perfect synchrony. “It is everything.” Annalee squeezed his arm lightly. “Everything, Wayland.”
“I was doing some scouting before you arrived,” Harlow said on Annalee’s other side. “And we want to go there.” She pointed up the center staircase. “For the Captain Cook exhibit.” Tugging her arm loose, she rushed on ahead, leading the way as though she were in fact a formal tour operator, and not as though it was her first time in this museum.
Annalee and Wayland followed close behind the happily chattering little girl.
“Some people, you know, think that the most interesting fact about Captain Cook was that he was a mapmaker.” Glancing back at Annalee and Wayland as she walked, Harlow pulled a face. “Borrring.” Her sister redirected her focus forward. “No. The most interesting things about him . . . are invariably the things no one talks about. His run-ins with Britain’s enemies at sea. Do you know, an entire squadddron of Spanish vessels detained his ships, but released him? And do you know why?” Harlow asked, her voice more animated than Annalee . . . ever recalled.
“Wh—”
Harlow interrupted Annalee’s response. “Because they realized Cook was in command. He was that respected.” She stopped suddenly and rubbed her fingers together; a wicked glimmer lit her eyes. “And his death. Do you know he was bludgeoned to death by the very king whom he gifted a sword to? Tossed a blade right into his back”—the little girl skipped on ahead, examining the exhibit as she provided that gruesome lesson about Cook’s final fate—“and then clubbed him over and over, and he did . . .” Skipping off to a display of weaponry, Harlow continued prattling on.
Moisture dampened Annalee’s palms, and her belly roiled. Her sister’s cheer-filled voice, perfectly juxtaposed with that grisly telling, all mixed in her mind with another blood-filled day.
The little boy wailing as a soldier’s blade missed the older resister beside him, cutting down the child instead . . . those terror-filled eyes instantly frozen in that moment of his greatest suffering. Unable to tamp down a little moan, Annalee stumbled.
Wayland caught her shoulder and then took her hand, his strong and warm and steadying. He held her eyes. “All right?” he silently mouthed.
She fought to get air into her lungs.
A drink. She needed a drink.
Wayland brought his mouth close to her ear and his breath was warm, soothing against her cheek. A hint of coffee . . .
Think of your conversation at Jeremy’s betrothal. How he enjoys coffee . . . anything but—it was futile.
The report of gunshots thundered in her mind, mixing with the jumbled shouts and cries.
Annalee brought her hands up to her head.
“Annalee, you’re here.”
Wayland.
It was Wayland’s voice, calling through the chaos.
“I’m here.”
He was here.
“We’re in the museum,” he said with a quiet firmness that managed to penetrate her rapidly escalating panic. “Where are we?”
She was with Wayland . . . and Harlow. Harlow, who hadn’t been present at Peterloo. She’d been a babe. Annalee focused on breathing. “The Royal Museum.”
He touched his brow to hers, that physical contact, his touch. His touching her cemented her more in the now. “That’s right.” His voice, it came soft and filled with a gentle praise.
The horrors receded as she focused on him, Wayland’s face and presence proving a lifeline.
And then the present came rushing back to meet her. Annalee sucked in a great big gasp of air.
As with the return to reality, came the rush of shame, coursing through her.
She pressed her eyes closed. This was the part of herself she despised. Gone was the innocent girl he’d fallen in love with, and in her place, this person who didn’t even have complete control of her wits. And she wanted to leave. She wanted to run and hide from all her weaknesses.
Nay, that wasn’t true. You want to go back to the moment when you were nothing more than a lady in a museum, meeting your suitor . . .
But all that had been fake. A carefully orchestrated plan laid out by a man who wasn’t a suitor, who wasn’t a lover. Who was nothing more than a friend helping her try to present something she would never again be to the world—a normal lady.
Except—
“Annaleee!” her sister cried, gesturing wildly at a glass case. “Look at this! It is a ring . . . made out of a shark’s tooth!”
This day was about Harlow, and seeing Harlow. Plastering on a smile for Harlow’s benefit, Annalee waved back. “Amazing!” She rushed over, grateful to put some distance between her and Wayland. Wayland, who was studying her with serious eyes and concern, and damn it, she didn’t want that from him. Not now. Not ever. Annalee didn’t want to be an object of his damned pity. His or anyone else’s. But from him, it was worse. With him, she was reminded of all the ways she’d changed, and the fact that he felt guilt for those changes. That remorse he carried, that he’d expressed so vividly in those letters, was almost worse than the pity.
Annalee kept close to her sister’s side, listening as Harlow shared all the beloved facts she knew about Cook and his treasures, and sharing in the young girl’s excitement for new details she’d not previously learned.
As Harlow pulled away, heading for a feather headdress helmet, Annalee meandered more slowly behind her. Putting space between herself and the military weapons now commanding all of her sister’s attentions, Annalee considered the small carvings of turtle figures and the far duller but safer fishing hooks.
Leaning over the case, she glanced at Wayland’s image reflected in that glass as he joined her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m having a splendid time, Wayland,” she said, devoting all her focus to a necklace of beige, brown, white, and black stones. “Again, I cannot thank you—”
“That wasn’t what I was referring to, Annalee.”
“Oh.”
Her skin prickled hot under the somberness of his statement and the stare he’d trained upon her. She didn’t need to see it in the crystal panes protecting the artifacts. She felt it on her person like a physical touch.
“You’re referring to what happened earlier,” she said. She should have trusted he wouldn’t let her earlier breakdown go without a discussion. Annalee caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. He would not. That hadn’t been the manner of man Wayland had been. He’d worry. About her. After her. She’d know
n that years ago. And she’d not wanted his concern then, and she wanted it even less now. “Yes, well, that happens sometimes.” She spoke with a breeziness at odds with the pounding of her heart. “As I mentioned when we spoke at Jeremy’s betrothal ball.” She’d not wanted to discuss it with Wayland then, and she didn’t wish to now.
“Is that what happened . . . in the fountain?”
She trilled a laugh. “I never met a fountain I did not love, you know.”
Except, he didn’t join in her forced humor. He continued to wear that grave mask.
Wayland took her gently by the arm, steering her to the corner. “It’s all right, you know.”
“I know,” she said automatically.
Wayland moved closer, gently taking her chin and angling it higher, bringing her gaze more in line with his, when that was the last place she wished to look. “It is all right that you have those remembrances and respond the way you do.”
And something snapped. “It’s not all right, Wayland,” she said on a furious whisper, taking a quick step that erased all remaining space between them. “It’s not. So stop pretending that it is. It’s the manner of madness that sees women shut away.”
His entire face crumpled, but he was quick to reassemble his features. “You’re not mad.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re haunted. That’s different. You are remembering something no one should have to live through, but you did. And you survived. We survived.”
She wrapped herself tight in a hard embrace. Survived. All these years she’d fashioned a fast existence for herself because she’d wanted to celebrate the fact that she’d lived. But what if, all these years, what she could have—should have—taken solace in, found strength in, was the fact that she’d survived? “Does . . . that ever happen to you?”
“Sometimes. Less now than in the first years after. There have been times I’ve thought I conquered those demons, but they will rear themselves at the most unexpected times. Reminding me that I’ll never fully be free of it.” Wayland lowered his brow to hers. “It’s always there, Annalee. It will always be there. And we can’t outrun it.”
A Wanton for All Seasons Page 30