A Wanton for All Seasons

by Caldwell, Christi

  And because of it, he’d put his reputation and his future marriage to Lady Diana aside . . . for her.

  Annalee hugged her arms around her middle and squeezed tight.

  She dimly registered Harlow wrapping her slender little limbs around her shoulders. “I am . . . so sorry. I should have told you. Because that is what sisters do. But I was just so worried about keeping you out of that place, but then I saw you today, Annalee, and you were so happy, but I know it is just pretend, and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  It was too late.

  This was a pain she’d not recover from.

  Tanning cleared his throat. “His and Her Ladyship asked me to remind you that you are late,” the butler called from belowstairs. “That the families have already gathered for the evening meal.”

  “Go,” Harlow whispered. “Before they make it any worse for you.”

  Could there be . . . a “worse” than this? Than discovering that her parents had intended to shut her away in an institution, and that the only thing that stood between her and that imprisonment was Wayland, who’d jeopardized his reputation and happiness?

  Because of me.

  Numb, Annalee managed to rise. And with the aid of the railing, she made a slow descent, heading for the dining room.

  The sight that greeted her was as happy a tableau as she’d ever seen.

  Her and Wayland’s mothers, conversing.

  Except, if one looked close enough, one saw cracks.

  The brittle lines at the edges of his mother’s lips.

  The worry in his mother’s eyes.

  His mother, who feared a union between them.

  Her mother, who feared a union between them would not be seen to fruition.

  And it wouldn’t.

  Wayland caught her standing there and immediately jumped up, and the rest of the table followed suit.

  He’d been the only gentleman to treat her as a lady.

  When the whole world had called her a whore and other similar disparagements, he’d offered her kindness and support . . . and . . . and tonight, she’d learned just how much he’d given her.

  This was too much.

  Annalee clamped down on the inside of her cheek, catching that flesh painfully with her teeth, welcoming the bite of pain, as she made herself walk the remaining way to Wayland’s side.

  “Hullo, my lady,” he murmured as she slid into the seat beside him.

  “My lord,” she said, her voice thick to her own ears.

  She sat there, staring sightlessly at her champagne flute.

  It was pretend.

  It had always been pretend.

  That had always been the game they played at.

  She’d just let herself believe.

  To be seduced by dreams she’d thought dead.

  She stretched her fingers toward that glass, then swiftly yanked them back.

  Reaching a hand under the table, Annalee rested her fingers on his thigh. The muscles immediately jumped and bunched under her touch, as did the gentleman himself.

  Startling: the fork clattered against the edge of his plate, damningly loud enough to attract brief looks.

  But then, with surprising aplomb, the proper Wayland donned an almost bored mask and swapped his fork for a drink.

  Annalee crept her palm higher along that marble-hard flesh between his legs.

  “Stop,” he said from around the rim of his glass.

  “Do you really want me to, Wayland?” she whispered, not so much as moving her lips, as with the fork in her other hand, she popped a piece of lamb into her mouth. “Tell me, and I will.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked quietly. “Why are you behaving this way?”

  “What way? Hmm? Wicked. It’s because it’s what I am.”

  “You’re not wicked, Annalee,” he said softly.

  “You’re just telling yourself that because it makes you feel better.”

  “I’m telling you that because you’ve placed yourself in that one constraining way, and that isn’t you, Annalee. A woman who is wicked doesn’t dedicate herself to improving the lives of other women. Or is willing to step aside or make changes so as to save them. The spirits and the smoking and the . . . the . . .” Men. And her heart spasmed; he couldn’t get out that admission, and she didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to think of all the men she’d bedded in the hope of forgetting the one who now sat beside her, compelled by guilt to swap out his future for hers.

  “Tell me, did you ever intend to let me know of my family’s intentions?” she asked as she sliced a piece of her roast into minuscule pieces.

  He stiffened. His leg so near hers that she felt his muscles bunch and tense.

  “Or was I never to learn that you were playing the role of hero, attempting to save me?”

  At his silence, she slid a glance his way, daring him with her eyes.

  His features were frozen, strained, and pale. “Annalee,” he tried, his voice emerging as a gravelly whisper.

  “Hmm?” Her voice emerged a fraction higher, earning a frown from her parents.

  Those traitorous, useless two who’d given her life, and who had spent these past years wishing they hadn’t.

  Even so, when she spoke again, she lowered her voice, offering him hushed tones. “I didn’t ask you to sacrifice yourself for me. I didn’t want you saving me then, and I don’t want you saving me now.” Not in this way. Not with him seeking some kind of atonement which he didn’t need. They’d planned to meet on the fields of Manchester that day, and loving him as she did, loving him as she always would, Annalee would do it all over again, even knowing what she knew now about what would happen and how her life would unfold.

  She rose.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered as everyone looked to Annalee.

  She glanced down at him. “I can’t do this.”

  “Annalee?” her mother called.

  Wayland gripped her hand, and she covered his white knuckles. “We have to break it off.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he implored.

  “I’ll not sacrifice your future with Lady Diana.” Before she proved the selfish creature she’d always been, she drew in a shaky breath and looked to the room. “This is not real,” she said quietly, the slight clinking of silverware touching porcelain the only sound before the absolute silence. She motioned between herself and Wayland. “This . . . is just pretend.” Unable to meet the pain bleeding from his eyes, she glanced to her slack-jawed parents. “He learned what you intended to do, and he attempted to . . . save me, but I’ll not be saved that way. By stealing his happiness. I love him too much for th-that.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed that sob, burying it in her fist.

  “How could you?” her mother cried. “I knew it!”

  Annalee shoved her chair; the carved mahogany Chippendale seat bounced back, knocking loudly upon the floor as it fell.

  She’d been wrong. Tears blinded her. This was even worse than she could have imagined.

  Wayland exploded to his feet. “Stop!” he called, and she needed to keep running, away from this and the pain and now, her future. But something in his voice compelled her back around.

  He didn’t deserve her.

  She’d been far stronger than he’d ever been.

  She’d dealt with scandal and public shaming, and her family’s ill treatment, and she’d done it alone.

  And with her standing there, tears streaming down the glorious planes of her high cheeks, those ocean-blue pools swimming in sorrow, he loved her all the more.

  He took a slow step closer, more than half fearing the wrong word or move would send her fleeing. And this time, when she was gone, there’d be no reuniting. This was the last chance between them.

  “I love you, Annalee,” he said hoarsely. “I have always loved you. You were and are the only reason that my heart beats, and it forgot how after Peterloo, Annalee. It forgot, because you were not in my life.”

  She trembled, her body shakin
g like a slender willow being battered by a tempest.

  “I was going to tell you,” he murmured, drifting closer. “I’d resolved today to tell you all, because I’d not have secrets between us, and because . . .” He stopped before her, and with hands that shook, he captured her face between his palms, cradling her. “Because I didn’t want this to be pretend. Not anymore. I wanted it to be real in every way. I want it to be real.”

  He sank to a knee, earning a shuddery gasp from Annalee . . . and one of horror from his mother.

  “What are you doing?” Annalee whispered.

  “Wayland, get up this instant,” his mother hissed.

  “Darlington, you don’t have to do this,” Jeremy said over her displeasure.

  My God, they’d ruin even this moment for Annalee? Her brother? His mother? Her silent and just-as-guilty parents?

  And it was in that instant that he snapped, broke completely of the chains he’d let himself be so bound to over the years.

  He jumped up. “Do you know what? You people, you’re all bloody awful. Each of you is the absolute worst. I’m in love with Annalee, and if she’ll have me, I’ll spend the rest of my life with her.” He looked around the intimate gathering of his family and hers. “And I’ll certainly not call family or friends the people who would cut her.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “Wayland—”

  Gasps filtered around the room. But by God, he was done caring about familial approval or guilt about Annalee being Jeremy’s sister.

  “Except you.” He pointed to Kitty. “You’re fine enough. You’ve defended Annalee and helped me open my damned eyes to what I was not allowing myself to see.”

  “Thank you, big brother.” His sister offered a pert smile. “And you’re welcome,” she said with a flounce of her curls.

  “But you . . .” He gestured to Jeremy. “My God, what manner of brother have you been? You should have called out any number of bounders over the years, and you didn’t. You’d be willing to see her consigned to the worst of fates.” Hatred singed his veins. “And you.” He turned his wrath upon her parents. “What parents reject their child so?” God, were he to be so blessed as to have a future and babes with Annalee in it, he’d treat those children as the treasures they were. He’d slay goddamned mountains and monsters for them. “A daughter who faced what she faced? You let her to her battles alone.”

  The earl bristled. “I’ve never . . .”

  “Never what?” Wayland shot back. “Been the father she deserved? No, you haven’t. But then”—he glanced about at the guilty parties—“none of us really have been the people Annalee deserved.” He paused. “Again, except for Kitty.”

  “Wayland, sit down right now,” his mother ordered.

  Ah, and then there was his mother. His self-centered, materialistic, power-driven, dear mama.

  “Oh, but you already know what I think of you and your quest for power. I’ve allowed you to obsess over”—he waved a hand at the elegant dining room—“this lifestyle, and made excuses, telling myself you worried about our family’s security, but it was always more about our standing.” Wayland didn’t bother to hold back the sound of disgust that spilled from his lips. “But you know what? I’m done. With all of it.” He found her with his gaze. “I love Annalee.” He directed those words for the room at large to Annalee herself, more silent than he’d ever seen her. And absolutely pale. What is she thinking? Why can’t I tell in this moment, when I’ve been able to tell every other time before this where Annalee was concerned? “And the people you’d judge her for keeping company with? They’ve proven more loyal and more loving than the lot of you.” He continued to lock his stare with her unblinking one. “Annalee, at your brother’s betrothal ball, you put a question to me. Do you remember what you asked?”

  She hesitated, and then gave the faintest of nods.

  Even so, he reminded her. Even though he knew she knew and she’d confirmed as much.

  He took a step nearer to her so only an arm’s length divided them. “You asked . . . what brings me joy, and you rightfully called me out for not knowing happiness.” A half laugh, half sob exploded from his lungs. “Nothing did.” He cupped her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, and he took faith and found hope in that. “Until you.” He let his arm fall. “You bring me joy. You are my life’s pleasure. And my life is dark without you. It has been dark. And empty, and there’s only light when you are in it.”

  She caught a sob in her fist.

  Wayland stretched out his fingers toward Annalee. “Let’s be done with this place . . . and these people.”

  “But not Kitty,” his sister whispered loudly behind them.

  “No,” he allowed. “Not Kitty.”

  Annalee stared at his palm. White-faced, her eyes wide, her lips trembling . . . and she made no move to take his fingers.

  Oh, God.

  This was agony.

  He wavered. His hand faltering, falling, and then she shot out her fingers, catching his palm before it fell.

  “Wayland, sit down,” his mother cried.

  A whistle went up, followed by a lone stomping of feet.

  “Enough, Kitty.”

  Wayland and Annalee shared a smile.

  And together, hand in hand, they left.

  Epilogue

  A fortnight later

  Waverton Street

  It was a first for the Mismatch Society.

  Oh, there’d been marriages within the ranks of members—two, to be specific.

  But there’d never been a wedding hosted at Waverton Street.

  “Sacrilegious, it is, I say,” Isla Gately muttered loudly enough to be overheard from her seat in the second row of the gardens.

  “Annalee appears ready to cry. We must stop the affair nowwww,” Brenna Kearsley cried.

  A pair of hands settled over Annalee’s shoulders.

  Wayland drew her close, so her back rested against his chest, and he folded his arms around her. “What do you think my chances of making you Lady Darlington are this day, given the rumblings of discontent from that lot?” he whispered against her ear.

  She giggled, tipping her head and aiding him in his quest to that little spot just below the lobe; she so loved when he teased it with kisses. “I think our outlook is favorable this day.”

  “Are we certain someone doesn’t wish to speak to Annalee . . . ?” Lady Cora suggested.

  “You’re more confident than I am, my love.”

  My love.

  Closing her eyes, Annalee silently mouthed those two words, letting the syllables he’d spoken roll off her tongue.

  How she’d missed hearing him speak that endearment.

  It had never been crass or careless, a hurried moniker dropped as it was by the men who would speak it after him. Rather, it had always possessed a husky quality, enlivened with emotion born of that real, purest of love he carried for her.

  Turning in his arms, she leaned up and touched her nose to his. “Yes, well, as they are my friends, they know I’ll not ever be deterred in following my heart, Wayland Smith.” Her eyes slid shut once more as Wayland kissed her. A tender, unhurried meeting that left her heart light and filled her with the most buoyant warmth.

  There came the rush of footfalls as more guests arrived, cutting into her stolen moment before the intimate ceremony they’d planned. With a regretful sigh, she opened her eyes. “I thought all of our guests . . . oh.”

  She stared wide-eyed at the quartet that made up her parents and siblings.

  “I did not invite your parents and brother,” he said quietly with a slight shake of his head. “I requested Harlow’s presence.” Wayland took a step closer and slid his fingers into Annalee’s, and hers reflexively curled, twining with his, as was their natural place of belonging.

  Harlow broke free of their family, and raced headfirst into Annalee’s arms. Annalee folded her arms about the younger girl.

  Jeremy spoke for the family. “No, Darlington didn’t i
nvite us.” He paused. “Aside from a letter he sent requesting that I arrange for Harlow to be here, that is.”

  Tears blurred Annalee’s vision as she glanced over her sister’s head to Wayland. Once more, he’d thought of uniting her and Harlow, even reaching out to Jeremy, whom he’d not spoken to since that dinner party two weeks earlier, because he’d known Annalee had desperately yearned for her sister’s presence that day.

  “No one sent for us,” her brother repeated into the quiet. “We . . . have no right to be here. Darlington was right,” he said, his voice catching. His face spasmed. “About so much. And we are . . . I am”—he took several steps forward and touched a gloved hand hard to his chest—“sorrier than I could ever express. For all the ways that I wasn’t there for you.”

  She bit her lower lip. “It is—”

  “It’s not fine,” he rasped. “You suffered, and you did so alone. You cried out to be seen, and we let you cry alone. Content to let you destroy yourself rather than have to acknowledge what you’d suffered and what you’d lived through.”

  A little sob escaped her, and Wayland wrapped an arm about her shoulders.

  Jeremy stretched an arm toward her. “That isn’t why I’ve come. That isn’t why we’re here. To bring you more sadness. We wish . . . to share your joy. To witness your union. However, if you’d rather we leave—”

  “No!” she cried out. “I . . . I would like that. I would like for you to be here. All of you.” Her gaze slipped over to their parents. “If . . . that is something you want as well.”

  Her mother dashed a lone tear from her cheek. “I’d like that very much, Anna.”

  Anna.

  That name she’d called Annalee when she’d been just a girl. Before Peterloo.

  Harlow grinned. “Come along, then; we are holding up the ceremony!” And releasing Annalee, she hurried over to catch her parents and began dragging them forward, out toward the gardens.

  As the trio passed by, Jeremy lingered.

  The moment their parents and sister had gone, he stretched out a palm toward Wayland.

  Wayland, who immediately took that offering, shook the other man’s hand.